


Swallow The Knife

by whoknows



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Barebacking, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Near Future, Painplay, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 16:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 76,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19429339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoknows/pseuds/whoknows
Summary: “You came,” Louis says, still breathless, clinging to Harry, uncaring that his sweat is getting all over Harry’s presumably clean dad shirt, or that he’s making Harry hold up all of his weight.“Of course I came,” Harry says. He shifts, one arm curled underneath Louis’ arse, the other spreading wide in the middle of Louis’ back. “If I ignored you every time you pissed me off we would have stopped being friends a long time ago.”Louis already knows that, of course. It doesn’t do anything to stop the pleased squirm in his belly every time Harry proves it, though. They fight like nobody’s business, both of them too stubborn to pull their punches when they’re arguing, and it used to get them in trouble, but they always make up.Adrenaline makes Louis loose-lipped, and they both know it. He tightens his arms around Harry’s neck, buries his face in his hair. “I missed you,” he confesses, quiet. “Doesn’t feel the same up there by myself.”





	Swallow The Knife

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the tags I've included are pretty mild in this fic, but they definitely happen, so be warned. Other warnings include: the presence of **Zayn** (for anyone who feels they need that warning), **smoking** (both cigarette and weed), **alcohol**. There is a brief mention of a **death** in Louis' family as well.
> 
> As always, thank you to Amanda, who lets me go on and on about my fics in a fandom she's mostly not even in anymore. Thank you so much for always being an incredible cheerleader!

Three hours before Louis is set to take the stage for the first show of his very first solo tour, his phone lights up with a text from Harry. It’s been on silent since he woke up this morning, in an attempt to calm his already frayed nerves, but he hasn’t been able to stop himself from checking it obsessively. He hasn’t even played his first show yet and he already feels alone and exposed, even with all his lads around him, loud and boisterous, trying to distract him. It’s why he put the phone on silent in the first place.

_Babyyyyyyyyy_ , the text reads, just that single word for a second, before the next one comes in. _You’re gonna fucking smash it, did you know that? Please tell me you’re wearing jeans and not those ratty joggers with all the holes in them._ A second later, _actually if you’re wearing them can you send me a picture?_

Louis rolls his eyes, hugging his knees to his chest and typing with one hand. _Stop drunk texting me you dickhead, don’t you know I’m trying to do something important here?_

It’s only ten a.m. in L.A. Either Harry’s still awake from a night out or he started drinking really fucking early. He doesn’t usually start asking for pictures of Louis’ arse until he’s at least four drinks in.

Immediately, the phone lights up with an incoming call. Louis hits accept, unfolding himself from the couch as he brings it up to his ear. “I hope you’re drinking something acceptable like an ale instead of that fruity wine you’re always banging on about.” He squeezes past a few people on his way into the hallway, accepting pats on the back and shoulder squeezes as goes, until he finds a quiet corner to settle into.

“Louis,” Harry drawls, exactly as slow and morbid as he’s always been, “All wine is fruity. That’s kind of its thing. It’s made from grapes, you know.”

Louis sinks down onto his arse on the floor, pulling his knees back up to his chest and trapping the phone between his ear and his shoulder, leaving his fingers free to knot themselves together. “Are you going to tell me what you want or did you just call to annoy me?”

Harry’s laugh is low and soft in his ear, fond. “You’re freaking out, aren’t you.”

It’s not a question, but Louis treats it like one. “I have no idea why you always assume the worst of me, Styles. I’ve always been the calmest person you know.”

Sometimes, Harry lets him get away with it, lets him distract him into talking shit. Other times, he cuts through all of Louis’ bullshit so quick it leaves Louis reeling.

“Let me tell you something,” Harry starts. Clearly it’s going to be the second one.

“Oh, please do, you know how I always love your boring, never-ending stories,” Louis says, mocking. Pushes up his sleeve and scratches at his arm for something to do with his hands.

To his credit, Harry ignores it, continuing, “You’re going to be _incredible_ , you know that? You’re going to get up on that stage, in front of millions of your fans, and you’re going to blow them away.”

“Stop, you’re making me blush,” Louis says, dry. He has to hide his smile in his arm, even though no one’s around to see him. 

“Your voice is going wow them,” Harry says. “Your songs are going to leave them breathless, and most importantly, you’re going to have fun. Do you hear me?”

Louis clears his throat, shifting. “As far as pep talks go, I’m going to have to give this one a five out of ten. It could have really used more bits about how kind and selfless I am.”

Harry’s laughter is louder this time. “You’re a fucking dick,” he says, and nothing has changed in the last ten minutes – Louis is still going to step onstage all by himself in a few hours – but he feels a little bit less alone.

A month later, Louis steps offstage with the sound of screams still ringing in his ears, adrenaline coursing through his veins. His fingertips are still tingling and his shirt is completely soaked with sweat, and he’s happy the way he only gets after performing.

He hits backstage at a run, a habit ingrained in him from six years of having to escape venues fast or get stuck in them for hours after finishing a show. Even running, he’s got enough time to catch it when he sees it, plenty of time to stop.

He doesn’t. Runs full tilt into Harry, hard enough to knock him a step or two backwards. If it was someone else, someone unaware of Louis’ penchant for launching himself at people, the force probably would have been enough to knock them over. Harry just braces himself for it, hauls Louis up by the backs of his thighs as soon as he’s got a good enough grip, and then they’re hugging like they haven’t seen each other in years.

It’s actually only been a few months. Two and a half, in fact.

“You came,” Louis says, still breathless, clinging to Harry, uncaring that his sweat is getting all over Harry’s presumably clean dad shirt, or that he’s making Harry hold up all of his weight.

“Of course I came,” Harry says. He shifts, one arm curled underneath Louis’ arse, the other spreading wide in the middle of Louis’ back. “If I ignored you every time you pissed me off we would have stopped being friends a long time ago.”

Louis already knows that, of course. It doesn’t do anything to stop the pleased squirm in his belly every time Harry proves it, though. They fight like nobody’s business, both of them too stubborn to pull their punches when they’re arguing, and it used to get them in trouble, but they always make up.

Adrenaline makes Louis loose-lipped, and they both know it. He tightens his arms around Harry’s neck, buries his face in his hair. “I missed you,” he confesses, quiet. “Doesn’t feel the same up there by myself.”

“It was beautiful,” Harry says, mouth pressed against Louis’ ear, commentary meant just for him, even as Louis starts to become aware of the cacophony of noise surrounding them. It’s the usual stuff, Louis’ mates, the band, the crew all rushing around, getting their jobs done.

It’s the kind of thing no one except Harry would say to him. _Beautiful_. Like Louis is an opera singer in a full tux and not some ex-boyband popstar singing songs with a bunch of vague innuendos in them.

Breaking apart is an unspoken, joint decision. Louis slides down onto his own feet and Harry lets him go. They each take one step apart, another ingrained habit they still haven’t managed to break.

“Boys,” Louis says, loud, “why didn’t any of you tell me Harry was here?”

Stan doesn’t even look up from his phone. “You already knew he was coming,” he says, disrespectfully enough that Louis’ only recourse is to put him in a headlock and drag him kicking and screaming into the dressing room.

It’s easy, sitting on the bus after the show, with his friends, talking about shit they’ve talked about a million times before. It’s easy, and it makes Louis happy, makes him feel good.

“Don’t even start that shit with me,” Louis says, offended, leaning forward so he can really emphasize his point. He can feel his shirt riding up his back, but he doesn’t bother reaching back to fix it.

“I’m just saying, there’s an argument to be made that blink is more well known than Green Day right now,” Oli says. Clearly, those are fighting words. Louis has never been known to back down from a fight, so he struggles his way onto his knees, intending to surge forward and give Oli what he’s got coming to him, only to get pulled back by a pair of warm hands.

Harry’s not gentle about it, either, yanking Louis back hard enough he loses his balance and goes crashing against Harry’s chest. His hands are big and sure as they hold Louis in place, preventing him from getting up again. Louis settles back grumpily, with enough grumbling to make it known that he’s only doing so under duress.

“You’re breaking his little pop punk heart,” Harry says, one hand high against Louis’ chest, the other sitting low on his belly.

“This is my tour bus, I should be _respected_ ,” Louis starts, waving a hand in the air for emphasis.

He’s cut off by a chorus of _After all the things I’ve done for you_ , and yeah, okay, he might have given this speech once or twice before. Scowling, he turns in Harry’s arms, putting his back to his so-called friends and fiddling with the strings of Harry’s hoodie, which is actually Louis’ hoodie, except that it might have once belonged to Liam. Louis isn’t sure.

“How much do you think it costs to hire a hitman?” Louis asks thoughtfully, setting about creating a knot in the strings so messed up Harry will have to cut it out later.

“It’s not the cost of it so much as the morality of the thing,” Harry says. His hands have slid off their places on Louis’ body, resting low on his back now, and he doesn’t have to be facing Luke to know exactly what look he’s got on his face. “Like, are you going to be able to live with yourself knowing that you’ve had all your friends murdered?”

Before Harry can clock the look, Louis twists back around, facing forwards again. “Not only can I live with it, but I’m going to _relish it_ ,” he announces to the room at large.

“Jesus, would you just sit still already?” Harry complains, putting a hand on Louis’ thigh instead, on the inside, high enough that it flags another look from Luke, and the thing is, three years ago, sitting on a 1D tour bus with Harry touching him like this, there wouldn’t have been anyone around to give him looks like that.

Touring as a solo act is so much different, and it’s only been a month. A month. That’s it.

“If you’re going to be like that, I need another drink,” Louis says, and he fucking knows that he’s giving something away to everyone in this room right now when he scrambles out of Harry’s lap in order to get it himself, but he does it anyway.

In the tiny bus kitchen, Louis stretches up onto his toes to snag a glass from the top shelf, banging it down onto the counter with more force than necessary. He’s not surprised at the sound of footsteps behind him, too even and deliberate to be Harry even if Louis couldn’t hear his laugh echoing from the lounge.

“So that’s still going on, then,” Luke says. Louis can’t stop his shoulders from tensing as he yanks the freezer open to grab a couple of ice cubes.

“Leave it,” Louis says, dropping the ice into his glass.

“It’s been ten years,” Luke points out, as though that’s something Louis needs him to remind him of.

“I will literally pay you to stop talking,” Louis says. He twists the cap off the vodka and pours it into the glass until it’s half full. He has a feeling he’s going to need it to get through the rest of the night.

For a minute, he thinks about drinking it like that. The only thing that stops him is the thought of the concerned look Harry’s face would make if Louis did that. He thinks there’s a difference between half a glass of vodka if there’s another half a glass of mixer in it. Louis doesn’t get it, but he hates the look Harry gives him when he does it, so he tops the glass up with orange juice.

“You do this every time he’s around,” Luke continues, ignoring Louis’ begging.

Louis takes a long, healthy swig of his drink before he turns around, leaning against the counter. “You know how it is between me and him.”

Luke’s face is exactly as unimpressed as Louis expected it would be. “I do know,” he agrees. “I also know that you’re not twenty years old anymore and that you haven’t been in a band with him for four years, so I don’t know why you’re still lying to him about this.”

He takes a few steps closer, until they’re standing less than a foot apart. Louis raises his eyebrows and doesn’t back down. “You know I love you, Louis, but I’m sure as fuck not in love with you. I’m going to respect your weird boundaries, but you really need to tell him before it comes back to bite you in the arse. I’m kind of surprised that it hasn’t already.”

It’s not exactly a biting comment to leave with, but that’s what Luke does. Louis forces himself to breathe in and out evenly, taking a couple more sips of his drink. Reminds himself that he needs to keep his shirt on for the next few days. There’s still a mark on his ribs from Luke’s mouth the last time they fucked.

Louis is in his bunk. He has a vague memory of Harry putting him there, but it’s distant, hazy. He has a few more vague memories of the past couple of hours, of laughing and shouting so much his throat feels kind of raw, of drinks and friends and music playing way too loudly in the background.

Sleep is pressing against the backs of his eyelids, close enough that it tastes like cotton in his mouth. Or maybe that’s because his mouth is just dry and he needs to drink some water. He’s drunk still, enough that all he would have to do to fall asleep is close his eyes, and he’s about to, he is, except there’s still voices coming from the narrow space between the bunks. And rustling. Voices and rustling.

One of the voices is Harry’s. After all these years, Louis could pick Harry’s voice out of a crowd. He can’t make out the words, not quite, but Harry sounds amused, and Louis is pretty sure he’d told him something just after he’d pushed him into the bunk. He can’t remember what, is all. Something about – something.

Thinking about it, Louis rolls over and pulls the curtain back a few inches, so he can see out. Harry’s on his knees on the floor, digging through all of Louis’ shit that’s accumulated on the bottom bunk. He’s talking to Calvin, the sound clear enough now that Louis could hear what they’re saying if he wanted to. His concentration isn’t that good when he’s drunk, though, so he lies there, arm slowly going numb underneath his head, watching Harry search for something.

He’s not sure how long it goes on for, the searching or the conversation. Harry’s messing up his entire system. Louis would complain about it, but now that he’s a little bit more conscious he thinks the thing Harry might have been telling him earlier was to go to sleep. He chews at his thumbnail as he watches, waits for Harry to come back. Harry’s hair is still short, curling at the nape of his neck, and for some reason it makes his shoulders look broader.

Eventually, Harry finds what he’s looking for and stands back up. Something cracks as he does, audibly enough that Louis winces around a loose flap of skin he’s trying to tear off. His back, probably. 

Calvin’s still talking as Harry strips his shirt off over his head, no preamble or anything, flinging it down in the mess of the spare bunk, then shimmies his way out of his jeans, responding to whatever Calvin is going on about. Luckily, he doesn’t strip down all the way, tugging on a pair of Louis’ trackies he’s cut into shorts, hopping from one foot to the other.

Louis laughs, clapping a hand over his mouth. The weird half-shuffle Harry does when he’s trying to get clothes on will never not be funny to him.

“Thought I told you to go to sleep already,” Harry says mildly, back still turned to Louis’ bunk. Louis laughs again, underneath his fingers, letting go of the curtain and wiggling back, flinging the blanket off so his legs are free. It’s a few more minutes before Harry and Calvin finish talking, and Louis is sleepy again, but he keeps his eyes open, doesn’t let them close for too long.

Harry climbing into the bunk with him is anything but surprising, but all of Louis’ muscles relax into the thin mattress as he does. He’s intentionally taking up as much space as possible, so Harry’s only choice of action is to sprawl out on top of him, all heavy limbs and warm skin.

Instantly, Louis goes to bury his hands in Harry’s hair, curling his fingers in and getting a really good grip. Harry huffs out a laugh against the side of his head, reaching down and pulling Louis’ left knee up until his foot is flat against the mattress, making space for himself. 

“I missed you,” Louis whispers, spreading his thighs wider, trying to give Harry enough space to fit between them. It gets dark in the bunk when Harry pulls the curtain all the way closed, creating a little cocoon of just the two of them.

Harry’s resting some of his weight on his elbow, other hand sliding beneath Louis’ neck. “I missed you too,” he says, glint of his smile eye-catching even in the low light. Knocks his forehead against Louis’ gently. They’re breathing the same air now, mouths only a couple of inches apart.

“I miss your hair,” Louis says. It doesn’t feel the same in his hands anymore, strands not long enough to slip through endlessly like he used to be able to. Doesn’t tangle around his fingers the same way it used to.

“Mm,” Harry murmurs, which isn’t any sort of answer, much less the one Louis wants, which is _I promise to never cut my hair without asking you first again_. “You want me to tell you about how amazing you were tonight?”

Louis does, and he’s pretty sure Harry knows that. There’s no way he can lie here listening to it without getting hard, though, and his cock is already starting to stir just from the weight of Harry on top of him. Can feel the press of Harry’s against the inside of his thigh, fattening up in a way that’s all too familiar. Knows that neither of them would be doing this if they weren’t surrounded by ten other people at the moment. It’s safe in a very specific way, after all.

“I’m sorry for calling you a pretentious hipster twat,” Louis says, raking his nails down the back of Harry’s neck, pressing his fingertips into the middle of Harry’s back, where he’s pretty sure the cracking was coming from earlier. “I’m really glad you came.”

Harry’s definitely getting hard. He doesn’t shy away from it, either, hips pressing forward, hand going tight against the back of Louis’ neck, holding him in place. “I would have come even if I was still pissed off at you.”

He’s looking at Louis way too intensely. Louis closes his eyes against it, biting down on the inside of his cheek. Harry’s back is warm under his hands, strong, and this is going nowhere fast. Both of them know that. 

“You should have come and stayed with me tonight,” Harry says. It’s as much of a reprieve as Harry’s going to give him, more than he normally does. He doesn’t mean it the way it sounds, Louis knows, because the only place they do this is in tour bus bunks. Doesn’t matter how many other beds they share, or where those beds are. This, Harry between his thighs like this, close enough that they could be kissing if either of them ever made the first move, it only happens in tour bus bunks.

Louis shrugs, linking his fingers together between Harry’s shoulders, eyes still closed. “I hate your house, you know that.”

He doesn’t mind Harry’s L.A. house, actually. Stays with him sometimes when he has to be in L.A. Even stays there sometimes when he’s in L.A. and Harry’s not. Disliking Harry’s house isn’t why he didn’t want to stay there tonight.

“I would’ve made you a full English in the morning,” Harry says. He’s not getting any less hard against Louis’ thigh, but neither is Louis. “Enough tea to last you a lifetime. You could’ve had a proper shower, maybe even a soak in the tub. I have those fancy little soaps you like to pretend you don’t like.”

Louis shrugs again, smaller this time. Lets his eyes drift open again. “Would’ve just gotten homesick again when we leave tomorrow. Not worth it.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, which is better than any of the things he could have said. Instead, he presses the pad of his thumb against his own mouth, then against Louis’, leaving it there for a fleeting second before he leans up, gets Louis out from underneath him, pushing him against the wall and fitting himself to Louis’ back. Neither of them are any less hard when they fall asleep, but that stopped mattering a long time ago. 

Louis’ second L.A. show goes just as well as the first one had. There’s really nothing like performing up on a stage with the audience screaming every word back at him. It still doesn’t feel the same as doing it with his boys, but the itchy crawl of anxiety he gets about it always fades by the second song.

He does two encores, ears ringing and sweaty by the time he’s finished, and kind of wants to go back for a third. There’s absolutely no way that’s happening, though, not with the schedule they’re on. The next city on the tour is only a five hour drive or something, but he’s got a radio interview scheduled for noon, so they have to get out of here soon. 

Everyone’s waiting for him backstage, all of his mates and his increasingly impatient looking tour manager, Sarah, and Harry.

Louis should be making a run for the bus right now, so they can get onto the highway. Somehow, he finds himself locked into a hug with Harry anyway, arms wrapped tight around Harry’s neck, toes barely scraping against the floor because sometimes Harry’s a dick and doesn’t bend down for him.

Neither of them are saying anything, and that great, adrenaline-fueled feeling in Louis’ chest is starting to deflate. He ignores it as hard as he can, closing his eyes and pressing his face into Harry’s shoulder. They know how this goes from here – Harry goes home, and Louis goes on with his tour, and then they don’t see each other for the next six months. It’s why Louis only went out to see him sporadically when Harry was touring. It’s fucking fantastic, being there, but then the moment hits where they go their separate ways and it’s like coming down from a high you weren’t expecting to end so abruptly.

“We really should get going,” Sarah says. It would sound apologetic if it was anyone other than Sarah. That’s why Louis hired her, though. Without someone around nagging him to get places on time, he’d be at least twenty minutes late to everything, and that’s not a good look.

“Yeah,” Louis mumbles. He doesn’t move, though. Harry’s wearing that stupidly expensive cologne he likes, and it’s all Louis can smell. The sound of people filtering out the door is loud enough to be intentional, and by the time it goes quiet he doesn’t have to look up to know that they’re alone.

Harry’s been rubbing wide, absent circles on his back. They don’t stop now, but they get slower, more thoughtful. “What’s with you tonight, huh?” he asks, voice barely above a murmur.

It’s a question he already knows the answer to, probably. It’s never mattered how hard Louis tried to keep himself from acting like this, he’s always resorted back to it, so fucking needy when it comes to Harry. Other people, too, but Harry especially.

“Nothing,” Louis says, pulling back from the hug. Harry lets him go without protest, so Louis shoulder checks him. “Walk me out to the bus, yeah?”

Harry’s still looking at him, mouth twisted like he wants to say something. Louis rolls his eyes, snags his phone off a table and tucks it into his pocket. His clothes are getting uncomfortable with drying sweat. He could really go for a change right now, but that’s going to have to wait until he’s on the bus. There should be something relatively clean on there, at least.

Louis doesn’t wait for him to decide whether he’s going to blurt it out or not, starting towards the door without checking to see if Harry’s going to fall in line behind him. 

He does, because he’s Harry and it’s kind of his default setting. His fairly mutinous silence says he’s got something to say that he knows Louis isn’t going to appreciate, though, so they only make it a few feet down the hallway before Louis stops, heaving an aggravated sigh. “ _What_ ,” he demands.

Clearly, Harry has plenty of time to stop walking before he crashes into Louis’ back. He doesn’t, hooking his chin over Louis’ shoulder and pressing a hand against his side, seemingly uncaring of the fact that Louis is still covered in sweat.

“Nothing,” he says, just as obvious a lie as it was when Louis said it. The difference between them is that Louis isn’t the type to let it go, though, so he twists out of Harry’s hold and takes a step backwards, to put some distance between them.

He doesn’t give a shit about having a row in a public place, never has. Harry’s always been the one to care about that stuff, not Louis, and it definitely wouldn’t be the first time they’ve had a row backstage at a show. So. Bring it on, or whatever.

“Oh my god, would you stop that?” Harry demands, taking a step forward and spinning Louis around with both hands on him, leaving his arm stretched across Louis’ shoulders. “I’m not going to fight with you, fuck.”

He’s the one who starts walking, forcing Louis to walk with him or get left behind. Their hips bump together with every step. Louis could force the issue, make Harry tell him, but they’re about to say goodbye and Louis doesn’t know whether he has the energy for that right now.

“You should surprise them next time and do a Green Day song,” Harry says, distracting him from contemplating it. It’s a mean fucking trick, because he knows that Louis is pretty much incapable of not going on about which Green Day songs he wants to cover, but the only thing Louis can do about it is stomp on his foot as they walk, the neon exit sign looming up ahead.

“What the fuck do you know about Green Day songs,” Louis grumbles. He leans into Harry’s side, almost unconsciously. One of the few downsides to having all of his mates on tour with him is that he’s constantly surrounded by people who don’t quite get the insanity of it all. Harry gets it, and that’s proving to be really hard to let go of.

Harry’s trying to steer him directly into the wall. Louis squawks indignantly, using all his strength to lean back and avoid it, centering them in the middle of the hallway again. “I think it should be Basket Case,” Harry continues, as if he hadn’t just tried to murder Louis for no apparent reason. “For obvious reasons.”

Because Louis is a basket case, yeah, yeah, he gets it. He elbows Harry in the side, as sharply as he can, and steps out in front of him so he can shove the door open.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think my first choice would ever be Basket Case,” Louis says. The bus is only a few yards away, and the sound of lingering fans barely permeates the air. He’s got a great security team. “It’d be Brat. Or Minority, maybe. Definitely not Basket Case.”

Harry’s gone back to looking at him, wearing that same twist on his mouth. Having a row in a car park is a lot different than having one backstage at a show, but if they’re going to do it they’re going to do it. 

“What,” Louis says, sighing heavily. “Just spit it out, Harry. Whatever you’ve got to say, just say it already.”

He definitely doesn’t have time for this, whatever it is. It’s not like he wants to be having a public spat, but there’s something to be said for slamming a door in Harry’s face. It’s petty and mean and not called for, most of the time, but Louis will keep on doing it as much as he wants.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks. He tucks his hands in his jacket pockets, rocking back onto his heels. There’s distance between them, probably nothing more than a couple of feet.

“Peachy,” Louis says. Knows that’s not going to be the end of it. Harry’s only easy-going when it suits him.

If Harry doesn’t stop looking at looking at him like that, though, Louis might scream. That’d be a story for the tabloids in the morning.

“Right,” Harry says, giving in so easily Louis’ eyes narrow. He closes the distance between them, hands on Louis’ shoulders again to turn him around, giving him a push. “Get on the bus.”

Louis opens his mouth to object, because getting on the bus means leaving without saying a proper goodbye, but Harry doesn’t let him go until the door closes behind them. Both of them.

“We’re going to Sacramento,” Louis says dumbly, going where Harry’s pushing him.

“Oakland,” Sarah shouts from somewhere in the back of the bus.

“Oakland,” Louis amends, twisting to look at Harry over his shoulder. Underneath his feet, the bus is starting to hum, a sure sign that they’re almost ready to peel out of the lot. It won’t be long before they’re moving.

Harry makes a sound of assent. He’s not pushing anymore, so Louis stops moving, turning around to face him fully. “You’re going to get stuck here if you don’t get off.”

“They have these wonderful inventions in Oakland called cars, Louis. I’ll just rent one to drive back.”

Doubtful, Louis squints at him. “Do you even have your wallet?” he demands. “You don’t have any clothes, or a toothbrush.”

He feels like they’re all valid points. The bus lurches underneath their feet, pulling out of the parking spot. Panic wells up in his chest, so abruptly he has to work at pushing it back down, and it doesn’t make sense. It’s not something to be panicking about.

“Listen to me,” Harry says. His hands are still on Louis’ shoulders, and he ducks down to press his forehead to Louis’. “It’s fine. It’s not going to be the first time I’ve used your toothbrush, anyway.”

Louis pulls back, frowning. “Wait, what?”

Harry sidesteps him with a smirk, heading further into the bus. It’s not until Louis hears voices floating over from the lounge that he figures out exactly what his panic had been about.

It’s Luke’s voice that’s the loudest.

There’s no time to pull Luke aside and talk to him. Not in a way that wouldn’t look suspicious, anyway, so Louis has no choice other than to follow Harry back, biting his thumbnail ragged. Everyone notices when they walk in, but no one notices harder than Luke does, judging from the slow, dramatic rise of his eyebrow.

Harry throws himself down on a free seat, something deeply ungainly about it. He’s wearing black on black today, maybe in an effort to go unnoticed, and his t-shirt fits him loosely. There’s another seat open next to him on the couch. The obvious thing to do would be to sit next to him like a normal person. It’s what everyone is expecting, even if no one says it out loud.

“Tea,” Louis says suddenly. Harry’s eyebrow starts to raise just as slow as Luke’s had, so Louis blurts out, “I’m just gonna make some tea. Anyone want some?” 

He flees before anyone has the chance to answer, filling the kettle and plugging it in to start it boiling. Louis has never been the type to mind the tour bus – likes it most of the time, in fact, to the point where he prefers sleeping in his bunk than in a hotel – but tour busses are small. There’s really no running away on one, especially not while it’s moving.

No one follows him. His phone vibrates with a message, though. _Really_ , it reads. Just that. Just that one word.

Louis just needs a minute, alright. It’s not like Harry and Luke don’t know each other, haven’t met countless times before. They’re friendly to each other, might even have ended up being actual friends if Louis hadn’t spent the last ten years actively trying to keep them apart. So. He just needs a minute to calm down and reassure himself that everything’s fine. 

_Don’t start_ , Louis sends back. Bustles around pulling mugs down from the cabinets, plopping teabags into them, getting the milk out of the fridge for something to do with his hands. He could have pushed Harry when they were still backstage, or even when they were right outside the bus, and this wouldn’t be happening right now. They would have fought, and they would have both went away angry, and Louis wouldn’t have the guy he’s been fucking on and off for the last ten years trapped in close quarters with the guy he _would_ have been fucking for the last ten years if the circumstances were any different.

_You need to man up and tell him already_ , Luke tells him. As if that’s something he thinks Louis is actually going to do.

Louis doesn’t respond to the message. He finishes making the tea, contemplating drinking at least one cup right here in this tiny little kitchen. Ultimately, he decides against it, gathering up the three cups he’s made and taking them back to the lounge slowly and carefully. 

He sets one down on the coffee table for anyone wants it, keeps one for himself, and gives the last one to Harry. Because of course he does.

To Luke’s credit, he manages to corner Louis just after his radio interview the next day. Louis has been avoiding him, but there’s only so long he can manage that in quarters this cramped.

“How long are you going to keep doing this?” Luke asks. He’s got Louis boxed into a corner. The only way out would be to push past him, and as much as Louis doesn’t like to admit it, Luke is stronger than him. “How much longer do you think you’re going to be able to get away with it?”

Louis could knee him in the dick. It’s an option. It’s one he prefers not to use, though, because he gets pretty good use out of that dick.

“I don’t need you interfering in my life, Lulu,” Louis says, too defensive right off the bat. He clears his throat, glancing behind Luke to see who’s lingering out in the corridor. “How many times do I have to tell you to drop it?”

Luke rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. He gets testy in the face of Louis’ moodiness, unwilling to indulge him. “Can you just take a step back for a second and think about how fucked up this is? What exactly do you think he’s going to do if you tell him?”

Actually, Louis can’t. He makes a point of trying not to think about how Harry would react if he found out about him and Luke, especially not after all of these years.

“I think he’d probably punch you in the face,” Louis says, because that much he’s pretty sure about. “You’re really stressing me out, mate.”

It’s not even a lie. It doesn’t look like there’s anyone out in the hallway, but thinking that has come back to bite Louis in the arse plenty of times before. There’s always someone lurking around somewhere. Granted, it’s not usually Harry, but it’s a risk Louis doesn’t want to take.

“Fine,” Luke says, dropping it so abruptly Louis blinks. “Don’t come crying to me in a week when you want to get off, though. I’m not fucking you in some damp broom closet ever again.”

“He’s going back to L.A. after the show tonight,” Louis says, frowning. Luke turns to go, shooting him an incredulous look over his shoulder, like he thinks Louis is the dumbest person to ever have graced the planet, before he leaves the room.

There’s still a couple hours to go before Louis is due to go onstage, and he’s still feeling rather unsettled by his conversation with Luke earlier. His dressing rooms haven’t been as big as the ones he’d gotten used to when he was touring with the band, but there’s still enough room for a couple of couches, a fridge, some tables and space on the floor. It’s where all of Louis’ friends are when he comes back from some last minute sound check stuff.

It’s loud, even through the closed door. Louis can hear them all the way down the hallway, and he thinks they must actually be doing something in there. Playing a video game, maybe, or trying to clean up something they’ve broken.

They’re not doing anything at all. They’re all lounging around, on their phones or listening to music. The noise is a heated argument between Calvin and Stan about whether Oreos should be dipped in milk or not.

As heated an argument can get between two people who are lying on the floor, anyway. Louis steps inside, letting the door swing closed behind him. He feels like he wants to do something, but he’s not sure what.

“It’s fucking cold in here,” he complains.

Silently, Harry holds an arm up straight in the air. He’s hogging an entire couch to himself, lying with one foot braced against the floor, the other flung over the arm, doing something on his phone. He’s wearing a hoodie he must have stolen from someone, and he looks warm and comfortable. That’s the only reason Louis takes the invitation for what it is, crossing the room and clambering up onto the couch with him, sinking down with his face pressed into Harry’s chest.

Harry’s arm comes down to curl around Louis’ shoulders, holding him in place. He’s been wearing the same clothes for the past two days, hasn’t showered, and by all rights he should smell at least a little stale. He doesn’t, though. His shoulder muscles move against Louis’ cheek, still paying attention to his phone, and a part of Louis rankles at it. Something way down deep inside him, the part that’s never liked being ignored, and especially not by Harry.

Louis shifts, making himself at home. “Do you want to get a tattoo?” he asks the room at large, turning his head just enough that people will actually be able to hear him. 

“You don’t have time to get a tattoo right now,” Sarah says. She’s sitting in a overlarge, plush chair, clicking away at a tablet. Another person who’s barely paying any attention to him.

“Just a little one,” Louis wheedles. He doesn’t even want a tattoo right now, not really. Can’t think of anything he would get.

“No,” Sarah says firmly, not looking up at him.

Louis opens his mouth, gearing up towards making some sort of scene – a loud, over-dramatic demand that he be respected as he’s the talent, or a speech about the importance of tattoos and all the reasons he should be allowed to go get one right now, maybe – except Harry chooses that exact moment to move, tossing his phone onto the floor below them and rolling them over almost in the same movement, so Louis is trapped between him and the back of the couch.

Indignant, Louis beats at his chest with a closed fist. “What the fuck, Harry,” he complains. It’s warm like this, though, downright cozy, so he doesn’t try to get up.

“You need a fucking nap,” Harry tells him, slotting a leg between Louis’ thighs and pressing him back even further, practically suffocating him. Louis’ eyes are threatening to close, but he’s not tired.

“I’m not fucking tired,” Louis says, still beating at Harry’s chest. He knows it’s coming when Harry uses one hand to catch his, holding them still, and doesn’t do anything to try to stop it.

“You’re being a fucking cranky monster,” Harry says. He’s nonchalant about it, like it’s a fact rather than his very much unasked for opinion. Louis grumbles out some choice words about his character, insults he was planning to save up for the next time Harry truly annoyed him. It’s a total fucking waste to be using them right now, but this is what it’s come down to.

A fucking cranky monster, though. What kind of insult is that, even? After all the time and effort Louis put into coming up with insults for Harry, he gets hit with a _cranky monster_. It only annoys him more. He tries to rip one hand free of Harry’s grip so he can use it to smack at his dick.

“Louis,” Harry says sharply, holding Louis’ hands tighter. They’re struggling, fighting for control, and Louis _knows_ that Harry’s going to say something he doesn’t want to hear in front of a room full of his friends, so he heaves all of his weight forward, knocking Harry back enough that he can roll off the couch entirely. Picks himself up off his knees and stalks out of the room, anger burning hot in the center of his chest. 

It’s irrational, the anger, and Louis knows it is. Knowing it only makes his eyes prickle with tears of frustration. He’s acting like a proper diva, and he only doesn’t mind that title when it’s not actually true.

The dressing room door slams a second time before Louis has made it even halfway down the hall. For a second, he considers just bolting. He knows Harry couldn’t catch him if he really put some effort into it.

He also knows that would literally be running away, though, and he hates looking weak in front of people. Even Harry, no matter how easy Harry tries to make it on him.

So he doesn’t run away, but he doesn’t stop, either. Keeps walking at the same pace, if only because it means Harry has to run to catch up to him. He’s half-expecting to get shoved against a wall the second Harry does, because that’s kind of Harry’s go-to move. If he gets the opportunity to put Louis between him and a wall, he does it. Especially if they’re fighting.

Instead, Harry grabs him, pulling him to a halt. His fingers are circled tight around Louis’ right wrist, close enough behind him that Louis can feel his breath against the back of his neck. Harry’s stooping, then. The knowledge sends a weak thrill through Louis’ belly, making it clench tight as he prevents himself from making a noise in return.

“Louis,” Harry says again, more of a murmur this time. There’s a catch in his voice that wasn’t there before, something undeniably more real now that it’s just the two of them.

Very carefully, Louis doesn’t let himself slump back into Harry’s body. Holds himself rigid, upright on his own two feet, because he doesn’t need Harry to help balance him. He doesn’t answer, either, clenching his jaw shut and staring straight ahead.

“Okay,” Harry says, hushing the word against the back of Louis’ neck, crowding up against him. Louis’ knees threaten to tremble, useless fucking things that won’t do what he tells them to. “Okay, okay, baby, I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry.”

They’re useless words he doesn’t even mean. He doesn’t have anything to be sorry for, and they both know it. Louis curls his fingers into his palms, squeezing his eyes closed so the tears won’t spill out. He can hear his own ragged breathing, and it feels like he’s half a second from falling apart. 

Louis can’t say anything without emotion cracking his voice, so he doesn’t. Doesn’t even know what he would say if he trusted his voice not to betray him.

Maybe it’s the ten years of history they have behind them, or maybe Harry’s always been able to read him so well, because he slides his free arm around Louis’ waist, hooking them together in one more place. Louis can’t bring himself to break free of the embrace, and it’s all the permission Harry’s ever needed.

“I’m gonna stay,” Harry says, quiet. Like he thinks he’s being sneaky, he slips his hand up underneath Louis’ shirt to palm at his bare skin, low on his belly. It’s something he usually only does under the disguise of alcohol, when he can blame it on the drinks he’s had as though Louis doesn’t know that he’d never do it if he couldn’t remember it later. Getting it now has Louis’ knees actually trembling, weak from it. The taste of salt when he licks his lips tells him that closing his eyes against the onslaught of tears hadn’t exactly worked as he’d intended it to.

Neither of them say anything else, but Louis fumbles a hand over Harry’s, and they stand in the hallway a little bit longer. If Louis is still a little wet-eyed by the time they make it back to the dressing room, no one mentions it.

After the show, they go to the hotel. Louis had sent Rob a message earlier telling him to make sure there would be enough to go around. He’d only gotten a _?_ in return, one he’d ignored. They always book a handful of rooms when they’re going to be in a city for the night, but Louis doesn’t usually stay in them. Prefers the bus, where the sheets smell familiar, where his pillows are, where all of his stuff is. 

The boys tend to stay on the bus with him. They know the rooms are there and that they can stay in them, and that Louis doesn’t care if they need to book more if everyone’s going to sleep in one. The money literally could not matter less to him. They choose to stay on the bus, though, keeping him company, and it’s one reason of many Louis feels grateful that they haven’t abandoned him over the years, or turned out to only be in it for the perks.

Tonight, though, Louis needs the extra space. A hotel room feels cold, impersonal. There’s something categorically different about having Harry pressed up against his back in his tiny bunk on the bus and having him pressed up against his back in a queen sized bed. It’s too easy to get used to having Harry at his back in a place that’s basically Louis’ second home.

And Louis has no doubt that’s the way it’s going to end up, either. Harry could get a room of his own with no trouble, but he’s not going to do that. He’s going to end up in Louis’ bed, breathing hot against the back of his neck because he thinks there’s something wrong with Louis, even if he won’t come right out and ask about it.

“Um,” is the only thing anyone says when Louis announces that tonight is a hotel night. It’s Stan, looking at him with his eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“Yep! Just need a shower and a real bed for once is all,” Louis says brightly. Probably too brightly, if the way Stan keeps looking at him is any indication. 

The problem with surrounding himself with people who have known him for over a decade is that they’ve known him for over a decade. Louis flees with the excuse of getting some stuff together to bring up to the room, knowing it’s obvious to anyone who cares to think about it for too long that he’s doing this to put some distance between Harry and Luke.

Bag packed, Louis shoots off a group text saying that he’s tired and going to turn in early. Rob accompanies him to the lift, pressing a keycard into his hand with a warning that if he loses it no one is going to care and he’s going to be stranded outside his room all night. It’s an empty threat, but a valid statement, so Louis accepts it with as serious a face as he can make.

Harry’s waiting for him by the lift, chatting with Alberto. They get in together, just the two of them, not a single word spoken between them. Harry’s hands are empty, even free of his phone, and it’s no surprise when he shuffles closer, arm coming up to rest against Louis’ shoulders, a sideways hug of sorts.

“You do know how moody you’re being, right?” Harry asks. He still smells like that cologne, somehow, enough that Louis thinks he must have a bottle of it stashed somewhere.

Louis sighs heavily, slumping into Harry’s side regardless. He should have made Harry carry his bag up to the room. “Fuck off,” he says with no energy.

“Your friends are going to start resenting you if you don’t cut the shit,” Harry tells him. It’s mild, less like he’s lecturing, more like he’s observing.

“Why are you still here, then?” Louis says. The lift ticks upwards, almost at their floor, where Louis’ security will undoubtedly by waiting for them, hallway cleared. Harry’s not wrong about him being in a mood, and he was the one to point it out, so Louis drops his bag onto Harry’s feet. It’s pretty light, holding just a change of clothes and a charger, a couple of toiletries. Harry still makes a pained noise, purely for effect.

The doors ding open. Louis ducks out from under Harry’s arm, wandering towards his room, leaving Harry to pick up the bag and follow him. He doesn’t wait for Harry to catch up, offering lethargic goodnights to his security as he passes, and goes into the room.

“If you still think I don’t get anything out of you being stroppy after all this time, I don’t know what to tell you,” Harry says from behind him. He’s waited until the door has closed behind them to say it, at least, giving them a bit of privacy.

Louis makes a noise, throwing himself face first onto the bed, not even bothering to kick his shoes off before he gets there. He wasn’t lying about being tired, and even if this bed isn’t his bed, he’s still going to pass the fuck out in it. Anything he could say in reply would only encourage Harry’s weird fetish for seeing Louis like this, bratty and petulant and stubborn, and Louis only encourages that through his actions, not his words.

There’s rustling. Probably Harry setting Louis’ bag down and digging through it, looking for something. If he takes Louis’ phone charger again Louis is going to murder him.

“Thought you were gonna shower,” Harry says, once it’s become apparent Louis isn’t going to say anything.

Louis flaps a limp hand once before letting it fall back down onto the bed. “Too tired.”

“S’that why you’re being such a dick?” Harry says. There’s the unmistakable sound of him wandering closer, and it’s only a few second before the mattress dips beneath his weight.

Louis has options, here. He could launch himself up and put Harry in a headlock, strangle him until he cries uncle. He could ignore Harry altogether and go to sleep, even still wearing his shoes. He could roll over and turn on the telly, and Harry would probably let it go.

Instead, Louis says, “Please rub my back,” in a small voice. 

It’s not even intentional, the voice, and sometimes that can be the most frustrating part of this. If he was in control of it, if he was using it in order to get Harry to do his bidding, that would be one thing. He’s not, though, just really, desperately needs Harry to take care of him right now, and it doesn’t change anything, knowing how easily Harry gives into him when Louis asks him for something directly.

“Okay,” Harry agrees. His hand sweeps over Louis’ back once, briefly. “Hold on a sec.”

He gets up, footsteps all but inaudible on the carpeting. Louis goes tense all over again, eyes closed, breathing into the pillow while he waits for Harry to come back. There’s no doubt in his mind that Harry’s coming back, but it’s hard not to feel alone right now.

It’s only a minute before Harry’s back, sitting at Louis’ side. His knees press against Louis’ ribs, too close for it to be unintentional. Then his hands come back, both of them at the same time, sliding underneath Louis’ shirt to rub up the length of his spine. Louis sags into the mattress, a soft noise escaping his throat. Harry always goes all the way in way too fast, thumbs pressing into the most stubborn knot on Louis’ back, digging in hard.

“Fuck,” Louis says into the pillow, more of a whine than he wants it to be. His eyes well up startlingly fast, and he has to squeeze them closed harder. He shifts under Harry’s hands, trying to pull away, because it hurts, too much too fast, and he doesn’t know if he can take it.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Harry says, pressure easing up just long enough for him to duck down and press his mouth to the spot, over Louis’ shirt, before it comes back again, even firmer somehow.

Louis squirms, mouth opening so he can suck in a lungful of air, trying to wiggle away from the intensity of the pressure. He’s getting hard, still wearing his jeans, and it’s so uncomfortable, so good it hurts.

“Oh my god,” Louis wheezes. Hugs the pillow to his chest, cool air hitting his face. Tries to hide it against the sheets instead, doesn’t want to let Harry see, knows his cheeks have already gone blotchy from it.

There’s words on the tip of Harry’s tongue, Louis knows, because everyone and their mother knows that Harry Styles has a dirty goddamn mouth, and he can’t stop thinking about what they might be.

There’s the obvious, of course. _Baby_ , because no matter how much they both try to pretend that Harry doesn’t slip up and call him it, it happens often enough there’s really no denying it anymore. _You’re so good for me_ , because Louis knows what Harry’s face looks like when Louis finally stops fighting him on something small and petty. _Pretty_ , probably, because, well. Louis is under no illusions as to what exactly Harry thinks when he looks at him.

The details, though. Everything in between that, Louis’ brain has to conjure up on its own, and there’s so many _options_. 

The pressure eases. Louis sucks in another lungful of air, cooler this time because he’s let his head turn to the side. Harry’s voice, when it comes, is startlingly close to his ear. “I brought some lotion.”

His fingers rub at Louis’ back, meaningful. Louis’ attention swings back to the fabric of his shirt, twisted tight around his body, oppressively hot and constricting. When Louis doesn’t say anything, Harry continues, “Let me help you get your shirt off. It’ll feel better if you really let me get at the knots.”

Louis bunches his fingers up in the sheets. “It’ll hurt.”

“Well,” Harry says, a brief pause between his words, “Yes.”

He doesn’t try to sell it anymore than he already has, hands moving in slow, dry circles on Louis’ back, light against his skin. Louis nods, just once, into the mattress, and doesn’t make even a token attempt to help Harry get it off. Lies still as Harry pulls the fabric up his back as far as it’ll go, then works his hands under Louis’ stomach to pull it up from there. For a few seconds, it’s hard to breathe as Harry figures out how to get the shirt up over his head with Louis’ lack of co-operation, and then it’s gone altogether, discarded somewhere.

Louis pulls his pillow back against his chest, resting his cheek on the corner. It’s not the world’s most comfortable position to be lying in, but before he can adjust, Harry’s hands are back on him again, slick this time.

Lotion has a different feeling than lube, most of the time. This one definitely feels thicker and greasier than lube does. That doesn’t stop Louis’ mind from jumping directly to the comparison, Harry’s wet hands on him, touching his bare skin.

“You know, if you lowered your mic stand an inch, you wouldn’t have to rock up onto your toes when you’re singing so much, and your back wouldn’t be this tense,” Harry says. Right away, he goes straight back to the spot he had been touching before, digging in roughly. He’s not a masseuse, and he’s not got any kind of training for this, but he’s always been good with his hands. It’s working, even if it hurts.

And it does fucking hurt. Low, pained noises keep escaping Louis’ throat. He’s squirming, wants to get away from the ache of it, enough that he keeps knocking Harry’s hands away from the spot he’s trying to get at.

Harry makes a soft, irritated noise, pushing Louis down flat against the bed and holding him there. “You’re the one who asked for this,” he reminds Louis. “Either you want it or you don’t.”

It’s a shitty fucking thing to say. He knows Louis doesn’t ask for things unless he really wants them, so of course he wants this. Just doesn’t have the patience to put up with the way Louis takes it, Louis supposes.

“Fuck you,” Louis says. It’s not as biting as he means it to be, not with the pillow halfway in his mouth. It gets the point across, though, and that’s all that matters.

Harry makes another noise, uglier this time. The mattress shifts, dipping as he gets up onto his knees, hands leaving Louis’ back, and for a moment it seems like he’s going to get up and walk away. 

He doesn’t. Moves so he’s kneeling between Louis’ legs instead, putting a bit of weight on the backs of Louis’ knees, pinning him down. His hands come back, on Louis’ shoulders this time, so his fingers curl around Louis’ biceps, a grip it would take some serious effort to wiggle out of.

“You’ve been trying to pick a fight with me for the last two fucking days,” Harry says, shaking Louis by the shoulders a bit. “What’s the point of me even being here if that’s all you’re gonna do, huh? I’m not going to let you goad me into it, so maybe I should just go home, leave you here with your sore back and your friends all pissed at you.”

Something raw explodes in Louis’ chest, big and ugly and dark. He knows he’s making another noise, can hear himself doing it, one he doesn’t even know the meaning of.

“Or,” Harry continues, leaning down so he’s slotted right up against Louis’ back, hands sliding along the lengths of Louis’ arms until he can tug them out from where they’ve been curled against Louis’ chest, protected, and stretches them out over his head, linking their fingers. “Or you can stop being a brat for ten fucking minutes, let me rub your back while you cry about it if you need to, and I’ll take care of you, okay?”

Every single weakness Louis has, Harry uses them mercilessly. Louis nods jerkily, doesn’t trust his voice.

There’s a pause, like Harry’s trying to determine whether Louis is telling the truth this time, or maybe whether Louis is even capable of doing that right now. He must decide he is, gives Louis’ fingers a squeeze before pushing himself back up. He doesn’t move his knees, though, keeps them pinning Louis’ legs down, like he doesn’t trust Louis enough not to move if he has the chance.

“Okay,” Harry murmurs. The skin of Louis’ arms feels heavy from the lotion, not rubbed in. It’s a feeling that’s quickly forgotten when Harry puts his hands back on Louis’ back. He’s gentler about it this time, soothing, even, and without so much pressure Louis is aware of the warm edges of all his rings. 

He hasn’t bothered taking them off. They’re stupid fucking things. Two of them are literally his initials. Louis hasn’t met anyone who’s more obsessed with his own goddamn name than Harry fucking Styles, has it printed on his clothing, wears it on his stupid hands. He’s definitely the kind of person who’d enjoy seeing his name tattooed on someone else’s body.

Louis wants to wear them. The rings, that is. On a silver chain around his neck, tucked into his shirt so no one else can see them. He inhales raggedly, forcing the words back down his throat. Harry would give them to him if he asked, is the thing. He’d even want to give them to him. Louis wouldn’t be able to tolerate the smug look on his face though, and that’s pretty much the only reason he doesn’t ask.

“Are you paying attention?” Harry asks suddenly, pinching Louis’ skin.

Louis jerks, gritting his teeth against the brief flare of pain. “Yes,” he lies.

“You’re a fucking liar,” Harry says. He sounds amused, though, much more willing to put up with Louis’ shit than he was five minutes ago. He scrapes a nail down Louis’ back, the other lying still against his shoulder blade.

“I asked you to rub my back, it’s normal to drift off during something like that,” Louis grumbles. It’s hard to feel any kind of annoyed when Harry’s touching him like this, deliberate and possessive. 

Harry slides his hand back up slowly, resting on top of the spot he was kneading at earlier. “If I go back to working at this, are you going to lie still for it?”

It’s only been a few minutes since he stopped, but Louis feels more relaxed. Enough that he can be honest. “Probably not.”

“Hmm.” Harry sounds it out in even more of a drawl than normal, thoughtful. He’s well aware of Louis’ inability to hold still for just about anything, Louis doesn’t see how this can be surprising. “Are you at least going to stop being a dickhead about it?”

Louis can’t help his smile, way too fond. He lets his eyes drift open. He can’t see any part of Harry, not without twisting his neck, and that would be way too obvious, even for him. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Yeah, you’re real fucking cute,” Harry mutters, more to himself than to Louis. He doesn’t sound displeased by it, and he gets back to work fast, getting another pump of lotion before digging his fingers into the knot.

“Ow,” Louis says. Whimpers, really. He closes his eyes again, shifting restlessly underneath Harry’s hands. “Harry, it hurts.”

He’s not exaggerating. It really does hurt. It’s a deep, aching kind of pain, right in the muscle, and Louis fucking hates it.

“I know, baby,” Harry murmurs, pressing deeper, until Louis can feel it all the way in his bones. “I’m not going to stop unless you ask me to.”

Between his legs, Louis’ cock throbs, insistent. He’s so hard he’s practically dripping with it, feels a lot more naked than he actually is. He’s still wearing his shoes, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like he wasn’t aware of it before, but now, with Harry digging his fingers in, using the strength he’s got in his hands, all but calling Louis out on it, it would barely take anything for him to come.

Harry’s just – he’s so fucking cocky. Never hides it as well as he thinks he does around most people, doesn’t even try around Louis. It’s why he thinks _not going to stop unless you ask me to_ is an appropriate thing to say. Louis can picture what it would be like if Harry put the fingers he’s using on his back in his arse instead. It’s – vivid. A situation almost exactly like this one, Louis lying naked on his belly. Harry’d be two fingers deep before even bothering to ask if it was okay, so fucking confident that he already knows Louis’ body that well.

He’d be relentless about it, too, stroking Louis’ prostate with every movement, wouldn’t care how close to the edge it brought him. Wouldn’t stop unless Louis asked him to.

“Wish I could be in your brain right now,” Harry’s saying, all deep heat and cracking syllables, “See if we’re thinking the same thing.”

They probably are. Anything Louis could say in response would only come out as a moan. Has to clench his teeth together to avoid giving into the impulse.

All of a sudden, Harry’s pressing down against the knot and letting his hands stay firm against it. The ache turns sharp, almost acidic, hurts so bad Louis chokes out a sob, can’t stop the tears from leaking out from behind his closed eyelids.

“S’okay, baby,” Harry’s saying, a smooth, quiet mantra. Louis struggles to breathe, sheet caught up between his fingers. He can’t think straight, knows he’s begging, but doesn’t think he’s saying _stop_.

Just as abruptly as it had started, the pain lessens, then it’s gone altogether. Louis still can’t breathe properly, sucking in air through his teeth, eyelashes wet, clumped together. Harry’s hands are still on him, both of them, gentle now, rubbing long, soothing strokes up and down his spine.

“Jesus fuck,” Louis wheezes eventually, once he’s remembered how to talk. He’s still hard, and he honestly doesn’t know how he didn’t come during that.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, something low and amused in his voice. One of his hands slides up to play with the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck, winding a strand around a finger.

Louis’ entire body feels like it’s melted into the bed. He takes in a shaky breath, doesn’t even consider trying to stand up. “Feels like I need a fucking cigarette.”

It was almost as good as an orgasm. Louis has long since been aware of how blurry the line between pain and pleasure is for him, but he’s pretty sure it’s never felt like that for him before. Two more minutes and Harry would have made him come without ever touching him below the waist. He doesn’t know whether he hopes that Harry knows that or not.

“Alright,” Harry says. His weight leaves Louis’ calves, but he doesn’t have to get off the bed to go fetch them, lies down beside Louis a minute later.

It only took him so long because he was taking his shirt off, Louis realizes. He wiggles up against Harry’s side, knows he’s being as needy as he would if he had actually come, puts his head on Harry’s shoulder and hitches his knee up over Harry’s leg.

Harry lights the cigarette for him, takes the first drag off it before slipping it between Louis’ lips. He holds it for him, lets Louis take a few long, satisfying drags from it before he goes to tip the ash off onto the bedside table.

“Housekeeping is going to hate you,” Louis says, watching him do it.

“I’ll leave a good tip,” Harry says, taking another drag before holding the cigarette back up to Louis’ mouth. They finish it between them like that, and the fact that Louis doesn’t even have to hold his hand up during it doesn’t do anything to lessen the fullness of his cock between his legs.

“Sorry for being so shitty to you lately,” Louis mumbles, turning his face into Harry’s chest. He does feel a lot better now, even though his eyes feel kind of sore and red from the crying.

Harry doesn’t respond for so long Louis would think he’s fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the slow stroke of his thumb over Louis’ upper arm. Louis looks up at him, already frowning, because he doesn’t know if he has the energy for another fight right now. He might start crying all over again.

It’s a mistake. Right away, Louis follows the direction of Harry’s gaze back down to his own body, where the bruise is sitting on his ribs. It’s undeniably a sex bruise.

“I missed you too,” Harry says eventually, tearing his gaze from it obviously enough that Louis has to hide his flinch. “Do you feel better?”

Louis’ back feels better, at least. He can’t stop thinking about what would happen if he told Harry who put that bruise there. Get out in front of it or whatever.

No matter how he figures it, he always comes to the same conclusion. It’s different, that it’s from Luke’s mouth, and Harry finding out about it is never going to go well, no matter how gently Louis tries to break it to him.

“Yes,” Louis says, turning his face into Harry’s shoulder. His skin is warm, soft, and he’s always made a good pillow. “Thank you.”

Harry wraps an arm around Louis, holding him close. There may be a lot of things that go unspoken between them, but Louis has never been stingy with telling people he loves them, and Harry’s no different in that regard. “I love you,” he says, soft. Harry’s next inhale is a little ragged before he returns the sentiment. Neither of them mention it.

Something is hitting Louis’ face. It’s soft, feathery, and fucking annoying. He tries to bat it away without opening his eyes, but it just keeps on coming back no matter what he does.

“What the fuck,” he groans, groping blindly for something he can throw, anything.

“Morning, sunshine,” Stan says brightly, hitting Louis’ face with the thing again. “It’s a bright, beautiful day in Oakland and you need to be out the door in thirty minutes for an interview, so you need to get your arse out of bed.”

Trying to slap the feathery thing isn’t going to work unless Louis is willing to open his eyes, and he’s not willing to. Instead, he drags the duvet up over his head, trying his best to hide for at least ten more minutes. Behind him, Harry grumbles, shifting irritably. His breath is hot against the back of Louis’ neck, skin warm where he’s pressed up against Louis’ back, arm looped around Louis’ stomach. 

Stan gives it about thirty seconds, then he yanks the duvet off the bed entirely. Louis groans louder, reluctantly peeling his eyes open. “Fuck off,” he says, blinking blearily.

“The two of you are really hard to wake up, did you know that?” Stan asks conversationally, poking at Louis’ nostril with the cat toy he’s holding.

Where did he even get a cat toy, that’s what Louis wants to know.

“You have to be a deep sleeper to actually get any rest on a tour bus,” Louis says. Even without the duvet covering him, the bed is warm and cozy. “You can leave now, I’m awake.”

Getting up is going to be a challenge. Not just because he doesn’t want to roll out of this bed, either. Harry’s wrapped around him tight, arm limp and heavy on Louis’ stomach. He’s still asleep, Louis is pretty sure, or at least mostly asleep. Just pure dead weight back there.

Stan smacks Louis’ face with the toy again, seemingly content to stand there until Louis actually gets up. “Now, you know that I’m not obsessed with your former glory or something, but hasn’t he gone on record saying that he prefers being the little spoon?”

He extends his arm a little further, smacking Harry’s shoulder with the toy for emphasis. Harry grumbles, tucking his face deeper into Louis’ neck, mouth wet and open against his skin.

“I hate to break it to you, Stanley, but he’s a fucking liar,” Louis says, elbowing Harry in the side, trying halfheartedly to push him off. “Also, I’ve seen your bedroom. You’re more obsessed with me than most of our preteen fans, and that’s saying something.”

Harry doesn’t move, plastered so tight against Louis’ back it’s probably going to take a bucket of ice water to get him off. 

“That’s because I think you’re _beautiful_ ,” Stan starts, mocking, and Louis doesn’t see it coming until it’s already happening, Harry jerking upright and whipping a pillow at Stan’s head so fast Stan doesn’t have any chance of dodging it.

Louis laughs, flopped over onto his back from the force of Harry moving, putting an arm up over his face to try to muffle it a little.

“Lou, please tell your tiny friend to leave,” Harry says, leaning back down over Louis. His voice is shot, almost pure gravel. He sounds like he’s about to lose it, and it shouldn’t be funny, but Louis is the type of person who finds dick slaps and nipple twists funny, so it is. He smells like sleep, hair wild and tangled, expression on his face so unamused the only thing Louis can do is laugh harder.

“Not sure that I’m the tiny one in this room, mate,” Stan muses, unaffected by the pillow he just took to the face. He’s had years to get used to this. Louis is pretty sure it’s not the first time Harry’s hit Stan in the face with a pillow.

“Please,” Harry tacks on, staring down at Louis with a frown.

Louis pats Harry’s bare shoulder, using the opportunity to slip out of the bed. “I’m not getting in the middle of this,” he says over his shoulder, going into the bathroom and closing the door firmly. Locks it for extra measure. One can never be too careful with this particular group of people. Who knows what kind of revenge they’ll think up for Louis refusing to take either of their sides.

By the time Louis exits the bathroom, freshly showered, wearing clean clothes, Stan is gone. Harry’s lying face down in the middle of the bed, limbs splayed out like he’s affected the position for show.

He probably has. He’s a fucking drama queen when he wants to be, and that’s coming from Louis.

“This is supposed to be my holiday,” Harry says, voice muffled. “What kind of holiday involves no sleeping in?”

“The kind where you’re the only person on holiday while everyone else has to work,” Louis answers, heading to the dresser, where Harry put his bag down. Like he expected, the zip is open, a sign that it’s clearly been rummaged through. “Did you take my charger again?”

Harry’s sigh is loud and overdrawn. “Of course I took it, how else was I supposed to charge my phone?”

“You better not have lost it again,” Louis warns, abandoning the bag and turning around. Harry had manhandled him out of his jeans before letting him go to sleep, and all of his stuff is sitting on the bedside table, lined up neatly, waiting for him.

He goes back to get it, tugging a hoodie on along the way. As he’s reaching out to grab his wallet, Harry reaches up and takes a hold of his wrist, tugging gently. “What,” Louis says, looking down at him.

Harry’s always been comfortable in his own skin, stripping down at the drop of a hat. Louis has seen him naked way too often for someone he’s not sleeping with. He’s wearing pants now, more decent than he is a lot of the time. All of his tattoos are on display, though, black ink contrasting against his skin, and it’s been two and half months. Louis is having a hard time looking away. The dimple in Harry’s cheek says he’s noticed.

“I charged your phone for you,” Harry says, stretching his free arm out to the table on his side of the bed, grabbing the phone and pulling the charger free with one hand. He doesn’t relinquish his grip on Louis’ wrist as he hands it over.

Louis raises his eyebrows, taking the phone and slipping it into his pocket. “And you needed to be bruising me in order to tell me that?”

Harry’s grip is pretty loose, honestly. Louis could break free of it easily. All it would take is a quick twist of his twist and he could be on the other side of the room before Harry could even roll out of bed.

“You were going to leave without hugging me goodbye,” Harry says, tightening his fingers pointedly, tugging gently. His stupid dimple is still dug into his cheek, distracting. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

“So?” Louis asks, putting a knee up onto the mattress, next to Harry’s thigh. “I’ll be back in an hour. I’m too busy to give you a cuddle every time I have to leave a room. I’m very important, you know. Got me own tour and everything.”

Harry pulls a bit harder. It’s still gentle, easy to resist, but Louis finds himself leaning into it anyway, climbing up onto the bed proper, sinking down onto Harry’s lap. Harry sits up to meet him halfway, letting go of Louis’ wrist in favour of sliding both hands around his back, resting just above his arse.

“You’re the most important person I know,” Harry agrees. “I consider myself very lucky to get five minutes alone with you. And I’m pretty attention starved, so if you don’t hug me goodbye whenever you leave a room I’ll probably start thinking that you don’t love me anymore.”

“I don’t,” Louis says. When he’s in Harry’s lap like this, he’s a little too tall to put his head on Harry’s shoulder comfortably. He makes it work anyway, scrunching down and letting his eyes close, breathing evenly. “I hate you.”

“Mmhmm,” Harry hums, very unconvincing for someone who was in a Christopher Nolan film. “Bring me back something nice.” He pinches Louis’ arse, hard enough to make him squeak, and then pushes him off the bed.

Louis lies on the floor for a minute, scowling. “I really do hate you, you curly-haired freak,” he says. It’s not his best insult, but he feels like it really gets the point across.

It’s weird, trying to wrap his head around the idea that Harry’s going to stay for a while. He showed up with his phone and his wallet and that’s it – no change of clothes, no overnight bag, nothing. He didn’t come out with the intention of staying longer than the night, and Louis knows that says more about him than it does Harry. Harry wouldn’t still be here if he thought Louis was handling this well, doing live shows by himself. It rankles, a bit, but not nearly as much coming from Harry as it would from anyone else.

They usually don’t spend longer than a few days straight together, not since the hiatus. It got so hard, towards the end, and part of that ache is still lingering between them. It’s why they can’t spend extended periods of time together, because no matter how good it is it always ends up hurting just a little too much to tolerate. Neither of them can resist it, falling back into the way they are together, too close, too much, touching in ways that Louis can’t defend as strictly platonic. It’s unsaid, unrealized potential, and it’s so hard to step back from.

After a few days, Harry gets this strain in his hands, his wrists, this look in his eyes like he’s thinking about saying _fuck it_ and doing something about it. It’s gotten worse over the years, his tolerance for it getting lower and lower with every time, so him staying now means he sees something in Louis that needs him to stay. He tries so hard not to make Louis promises he can’t keep, and Louis knows it takes something out of him to do it.

He’s staying, though. He’s staying because Louis needs him to stay, and he’ll always martyr himself if he thinks Louis needs him.

If Louis was a better person, he’d pull himself back together and let Harry go. He’s an adult, and he can take care of himself. Wanting Harry to do it for him isn’t a good enough reason to keep him here.

Instead, Louis sends Sarah out to a shop. She comes back with a bag in her hand and a look on her face like she might know why Louis sent her for this particular item. She doesn’t say anything, too much of a consummate professional for that, which is exactly why Louis sent her and not Alberto or someone else.

Harry’s off somewhere doing fuck knows what. Louis has to track him down, bag in hand, avoiding as many people as he possibly can, and then get him alone. It’s a testament to the nature of their relationship that none of his friends even blink when Louis pulls Harry into a single stall bathroom behind him.

“Here,” Louis says, thrusting the bag out at Harry.

Harry looks down at it, eyebrows slowly rising. “Thanks?” he says cluelessly, taking it.

Impatient, Louis rolls his eyes, gesturing to the bag. “Open it.”

Still slow, Harry tugs the top of the bag open. He must be doing it on purpose, trying to drive Louis crazy, and it’s kind of working. Louis has to battle the impulse to yank the bag back and do it himself. Harry pulls the shirt out, tucking the bag underneath his arm absently, and shakes it out so he can see it properly.

The way he smiles down at the shirt is as slow as everything else he’s doing today. “Lou,” he says, soft.

“You need a fresh shirt, at the very least,” Louis says. “The sweat stains are getting really noticeable.”

Harry looks down at the shirt for a few seconds longer, shaking his head a little, before putting it on his shoulder and taking the two steps necessary to crush Louis back against the door, arms around his back.

“Louis,” he repeats, sounding unbearably fond, “I really fucking love you.”

It’s not the type of thing Harry really wears anymore, a t-shirt Louis could have gotten in any of a hundred stores in any city. It probably only cost twenty bucks, but it’s the same Ramones shirt Harry had years ago, the one he wore until it was more hole than material, until Paul had thrown it out on him.

“You like it?” Louis asks, unable to stop himself from sounding uncertain. Of course Harry likes it. Louis could have gotten him a bikini and Harry would have liked it, because he likes it when Louis gives him things. Even if they’re things that only have sentimental value.

Especially then, maybe.

“I love it,” Harry says, and like he’s trying to prove it, he pulls back from the hug, pulls the shirt he’s wearing up over his head and puts the new one on.

Louis rolls his eyes, reaching out to brush some lint off the shoulder. “That thing you’re doing with your face doesn’t do anything for me,” he informs him, turning around to twist the bathroom door open again. Harry squeezes his arse as he leaves, and Louis doesn’t squeak, even though he kind of wants to.

The show goes well. There’s something inside Louis, buried deep down, that settles with Harry’s presence. He tries not to think about it too much, and he definitely tries not to depend on it, because at some point Harry’s going to leave. There’s no denying that it’s there, though, and Louis has never been good at stopping himself from seeking it out when they’re together.

It’s another bus night. Getting a hotel isn’t an option – they need to be on the road to make it to the next stop on time – and honestly, Louis doesn’t want to sleep in another unfamiliar bed anyway. The novelty of hotels wore off a long time ago. He’s always been the type that’s more comfortable in familiar surroundings, and that’s something that’s probably never going to change. He wants his stuff, and he wants his people, and if he also wants to be lulled to sleep in a moving vehicle with Harry breathing against the back of his neck, no one has to know.

Harry hasn’t changed out of the Ramones shirt. He’s the only one still waiting, dressing room otherwise empty, slumped into an armchair, scrolling through his phone with his cheek resting against his shoulder. Louis had stopped to take advantage of the venue’s showers, and he feels fresh and clean now, ready to go.

It’s not surprising, that Harry didn’t get on the bus with everyone else. For the most part, he’s friends with Louis’ friends, definitely gets along with Stan like they’re a lot closer than they actually are, and he has no qualms about hanging out with them without Louis present. It’s a thing he does, though, waiting for Louis even if no one else is, because he knows the way Louis gets about being left behind. 

Louis’ chest feels warm. He clears his throat impatiently when Harry doesn’t look up at him immediately. “Ready?”

“Just a minute,” Harry says, distracted, a tiny furrow between his eyebrows as he concentrates on his phone.

Louis isn’t patient enough to wait, so he crosses the room and forces his way onto the chair with Harry, even though there isn’t really enough room for both of them. He ends up mostly on Harry’s lap, trying to get a proper glimpse of his phone. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get Jamie to send me some clothes,” Harry answers, still distracted, tapping away at a message agonizingly slowly. “He keeps saying that he doesn’t understand why I don’t just buy a bunch of new stuff.”

The last thing Harry needs is more clothes. Louis has been stealing an article of clothing from Harry’s house every time he’s there for the last six years and Harry still hasn’t noticed. He has entire closet full of them. He’s thinking about sewing them all together and laying them all out end to end in Harry’s garden. It would probably be more effective if he has more, though, so he might have to wait.

Louis yanks the phone out of Harry’s hands, reads the message he was typing out quickly, rolls his eyes and deletes it. Harry sighs, but he doesn’t do anything to stop Louis from smashing out a text that will get results.

_THIS IS WHAT I PAY YOU FOR YOU FOOL_

Jamie’s response comes almost immediately. _hi louis_

“You should fire him,” Louis says, typing _he needs clean clothes he smells like a sewer_ and sending it before Harry has a chance to stop him.

Harry yawns, stretching his arms out above his head. What is he so tired for, Louis wants to know. He wasn’t the one up on stage doing all the work. All he had to do is sit backstage and watch the show from a nice comfy seat. He has no reason to be tired. “If I fired someone every time you told me to no one would ever want to work for me.”

_do they not have running water in america? just bully him into taking a shower the way you bully him into doing everything else_

That’s actually not a bad idea. Not the part about Harry taking a shower – Louis is feeling the urge to bully Harry into doing something. He just doesn’t know what yet.

“Shh,” Louis says distractedly, hitting the call button and bringing the phone up to his ear. Again, Harry doesn’t do anything to stop him, but that may be more because he’s got his eyes closed than anything.

Jamie answers with, “For the millionth time, I’m not giving you the password to Harry’s bank account. I don’t even know what it is, so you can stop asking.”

That has nothing to do with what Louis was going to say. Also, he’s never going to stop asking. So far all of his attempts to figure it out have been unsuccessful. He can always tell by the look on Harry’s face whether he’s guessed right or not. For someone who’s starred in a major motion picture, he can be a terrible actor sometimes.

“We need some of those awful French movies he keeps in London as well as the clothes,” Louis says. “The ones without the subtitles. He keeps betting me that he knows more French than I do and when I win I’m going to beat him over the head with the empty DVD cases.”

Harry’s smiling, eyes still closed. Louis pokes at his dimple until it goes away.

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t work for you?” Jamie asks. He sounds like he’s eating something.

“What are you doing in London, anyway?” Louis asks, frowning suspiciously. “Weren’t you supposed to be in L.A. with him making sure he doesn’t fall into any holes while he’s walking?”

The smile isn’t going away. Louis keeps poking at it. Eventually Harry’s cheek will start to hurt from it so he’ll have no other choice but to stop with the smiling.

“I was in L.A. with him,” Jamie says, chewing obnoxiously loud. “Then he fucked off to be with you, so I fucked off back to my own house.”

The way Harry’s smile gets a tiny bit wider says he can hear both sides of the conversation, despite pretending that he’s asleep. Louis is going to give it another two minutes and then shove his finger up Harry’s nose, see if that makes him stop smiling. He wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t.

“You’re a terrible P.A.,” Louis says. “I’m gonna make him fire you.”

Jamie’s actually his favourite of all the P.A.’s Harry’s had over the years. Louis would never tell him that, though. Wouldn’t want him getting a big head.

“He’s not going to fire me,” Jamie says easily. “Who do you think bosses him around when you’re not there? Without that he probably would actually fall in a ditch and break a leg or something.”

“I don’t boss him around,” Louis says. Harry’s eyebrows arch up, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “I just encourage him to do things. It’s his choice whether he actually does them or not.”

That’s a lie. Louis absolutely _does_ boss Harry around, and when Harry doesn’t do what he wants him to Louis resorts to pinching and talking in a high-pitched voice that Harry absolutely hates. Either it works and Harry ends up giving in or he makes himself disappear for a bit. Either way, Louis always wins.

“Right,” Jamie says. He doesn’t even try to make it sound like he believes it. “I’ll send some stuff to the hotel in San Jose, alright?”

“None of those floral suits,” Louis says immediately. “He’s trying to go incognito, he needs dark clothes and sunglasses.”

Jamie sighs, loud and long-suffering. “Anything else, your highness?”

“What’s his bank account password?”

Jamie hangs up on him. It’s really not Louis’ fault – Jamie definitely should have seen that question coming.

“Harry!” Louis shouts, slamming the dressing room door open with his shoulder, fumbling with his old phone and the packaging of his new one, trying not to drop them both. “Harry, can you set this up for me?”

He holds out the box with the new phone in it expectantly, frowning down at his old one. There’s a way to transfer all of his data from it, he knows, but he can’t figure it out.

“Harry!” Louis says, exasperated, when Harry doesn’t take it from it. He looks up, opening his mouth to yell some more, because Harry’s probably sleeping on the couch again and doesn’t want to get up.

Everyone’s staring at him. Harry’s nowhere to be seen.

“Do you always walk into a room yelling for Harry and just expect him to magically appear?” Oli asks.

“Is this what it was like touring with One Direction?” Calvin asks next.

Louis sighs, folding his arms across his chest. “Where did he go?”

“It’s not too far off, actually,” Stan says thoughtfully. “Only difference is Harry was normally behind him back then.”

“Behind him like standing behind him or like _behind_ him?” Luke asks. “Emotionally speaking, of course.”

“Both,” Stan explains. “He’s a loomer.”

Louis needs new friends. One that don’t make fun of him for no reason. “He’s usually here,” he says, tapping his fingers impatiently against the box.

“I can help you with your phone, Tommo,” Oli offers.

“No, it’s okay, Harry can help me when he comes back,” Louis says distractedly. He feels a little unsettled now. “Where did he go?”

“I’m right here,” Harry says from behind him. His arm is warm as he reaches over Louis’ shoulder to take the box from him. “What do you need help with?”

Louis relaxes, letting Harry tug the box away from him. “Where did you go?” he asks, turning around so he can watch Harry take the phone out and turn it on.

“Rhode Island,” Harry answers easily, setting the empty box down on a table and sitting down with the phone in his hand, eyebrows furrowed as he swipes through the settings.

He’s such as arsehole. Louis climbs onto the empty seat beside him, legs folded underneath him. “Can you – ” Louis starts, trying to tap at the screen.

Harry pulls it away from him. Louis topples a little more into him in the process. “Shh,” Harry says, taking Louis’ old phone from his hand.

“Don’t shush me,” Louis says, half complaining, leaning his shoulder into Harry’s, knee pressed up against his thigh as he tries to make sure Harry’s doing it right.

“You’re distracting me,” Harry says mildly. On the screen, something is loading. Louis’ fingers itch with the urge to take the phone back and do it himself. “Go take your restlessness out on someone else.”

“Ugh,” Louis mutters to himself. He squirms his way underneath Harry’s arms to lie across his lap on his stomach, staring blankly at the dark fibers of the couch material. Harry’s elbows come down to rest on his back, heavy and familiar.

Where was Harry five minutes ago, that’s what Louis wants to know. It never takes long to get used to Harry being at his side when they’re together, and the last few days really have felt like touring with the band all over again. A little quieter, maybe, a little less chaotic, but a lot less like he’s doing it alone.

Luke is looking at them again. Louis can feel his beady little eyes boring into his back, saying things that his mouth currently isn’t. If he keeps it up, Harry is definitely going to notice, and that’s going to start a conversation that Louis absolutely doesn’t want to have.

Sighing, he rolls off the couch, landing on his knees on the floor. He doesn’t bother watching his elbows in the process, and Harry makes an ugly noise when one of them digs into his thigh on the way down. Louis ignores him, clambering to his feet and walking towards the door.

“You’re with me,” he orders, pointing at Luke. He doesn’t wait to see if Luke will obey, making his way down an unfamiliar hallway with confidence. After a while it starts to seem like all venues have the same lay-out, so he’s not too worried about getting lost.

Once they’re an acceptable distance away from the dressing room, Louis stops, turning around to face Luke with his arms folded across his chest. “Clearly you have something you want to say to me,” he tells Luke.

“Everything I have to say I’ve already told you,” Luke says. His tone is mild, un-confrontational. “I’m not your boyfriend, I’m not going to have the same argument with you over and over again.”

So it _is_ an argument, then. Louis knew it. For all that Luke denies it, he’s invested in Louis’ love life.

“That’s true,” Louis agrees. “You are my friend, though, so I need you to stop acting like a jilted ex-lover.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “If I was acting like a jilted ex-lover I would have told Harry that we had a torrid love affair,” he says. “You need to watch something other than soap operas.”

There’s not much on telly in the afternoons. Louis has no other choice than to watch soap operas. It’s not his fault.

“Look,” Louis says. It’s time to get serious. “I know it’s complicated, all the stuff between me and him, but the stuff between you and me isn’t. We’ve always been friends first, the sex was just a nice bonus.”

Luke’s face is so unimpressed Louis kind of wants to take a picture of it. If only he hadn’t left his phone with Harry.

“No fucking kidding,” Luke says. “That’s why, as your _friend_ , I keep telling you that there’s no reason you and him shouldn’t be together anymore. It’s really frustrating, as your _friend_ , to watch you pine over someone you can have.”

Okay, Louis kind of had that coming, he can admit that.

“Okay,” Louis says. “Fine. Thank you for your input. You can go back to the dressing room. Please send Stan out next.”

Luke gives him another look, exasperated and reluctantly fond, and turns around to go. When Stan comes out, a confused expression on his face, Louis covers all of his bases by giving him an impromptu mission to help him find his way to the roof. Just in case Harry thinks there may be something weird going on.

The stage is cool underneath his back. Louis always forgets how hot it is in California until he’s back there. The venue is air-conditioned, but it’s doing fuck all to keep the sweat at bay. He doesn’t want to think about what it’s going to feel like when these seats fill up and he has to perform with the body heat of five thousand people surrounding him.

Harry’s crooning Barbie Girl into Louis’ mic, much slower than it’s meant to be sung, and Louis honestly can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose or if he’s just forgotten the tempo of the song. He doesn’t even have any background music to it, just the sound of his voice echoing through the empty theater. It sounds good, sounds really nice, actually, but Louis boos him anyway, as energetically as he can from where he’s lying. Just to get the point across.

Undeterred, Harry keeps singing, Louis’ in-ears tucked into his ears the best he can get them. He hadn’t asked before hijacking Louis’ sound check, just took the microphone right out of Louis’ hand and his in-ears out as if he wasn’t doing something completely disgusting. It’s an absolute disregard for anyone else’s boundaries, is what it is.

The song comes to a slow, dramatic finish. Harry goes quiet, fiddling with the mic stand. “Freebird!” Louis calls out, just to be annoying.

Harry glances at him over his shoulder, trying to look unimpressed. The dimple in his cheek really gives him away, though, and instead of Freebird he starts in on Love You Goodbye. It’s on Louis’ setlist, so the band chimes in quickly, and it starts to sound like an actual song instead of Harry fucking around with a mic.

At this point, it’s unnecessary. The sound is good, the stage is set, and they’re ready to go. Why anyone is indulging him is beyond Louis.

“Are you paying him for this?” Stan asks, appearing at Louis’ side out of nowhere and nudging him with his foot.

“I’d pay him to stop,” Louis says, loud enough for Harry to hear him over the music. 

Harry pulls the mic free from the stand, ambling towards where Louis is lying, still singing. He’s not doing his ridiculous dancing, but he shimmies his shoulders along the way, eyebrow twitching in a way he probably means to be enticing. He looks dumb.

Louis would still have sex with him. Thousands of other people would too, so he doesn’t feel bad about it. His verse is coming up, the one he sings on the album, and he knows before Harry even gets close that he’s going to put the mic in Louis’ face.

Louis waits a beat, long enough to make Harry think he’s not going to do anything but not long enough for the band to stop playing, and then says, deadpan, in the best imitation he’s got of Harry’s voice, “That’s what makes you beautiful.”

It makes Harry laugh, dropping onto his knees and putting the mic down. Completely ignoring Stan, he leans over Louis with a hand braced just beside Louis’ shoulder, preventing him from getting up. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

The band is still playing, finishing out the song. “When it stop being funny, I will,” Louis answers, tapping at the inner crook of Harry’s elbow with two fingers. “Move, I wanna go find a snack.”

“You should be paying me, you know,” Harry says, curling his fingers around Louis’ shoulder instead of getting out of the way. “I carry your bags, I do your sound check for you, I made you tea earlier, the list just goes on and on. I’m starting to feel used.”

Solemnly, Louis nods. He holds his index finger up and lifts his hips up off the floor, fishing for his wallet with his free hand. He pulls it free of his back pocket and opens it up, peering inside. There’s a few bills in it of assorted denominations. He pulls a dollar free and tucks it down the front of Harry’s shirt, patting his chest for good measure. “There you go, buddy.”

Harry gasps, feigning awe. “A whole dollar? Oh, you shouldn’t have! The only thing that could make this day any better is if you had have signed it first. I’ve always wanted an autograph from Louis Tomlinson.”

“That’s too bad,” Louis says faux-sympathetically. “Who knows what kind of documents you’d forge if you had my signature. I’m never going to be stupid enough to give it to you.”

It doesn’t seem like Harry’s going to move on his own, so Louis pushes him, wiggling out from underneath him. He climbs onto his feet slowly, stretching as he goes, and he can feel Harry’s eyes on his arse. It’s far from the first time he’s caught Harry ogling him over the past three days, and it always makes Louis flush a little. Harry doesn’t intend to be so blatant about it, Louis is pretty sure, and he can never decide whether that makes it better or worse.

“C’mon, you can make me some more tea,” Louis says, beckoning for Harry to follow him without turning around. He feels Harry fall into step behind him, feels that his gaze isn’t caught on Louis’ arse anymore.

In the dressing room, Harry goes off to make the tea. Stan comes to a stop at Louis’ side, nudging him with his elbow. “He’s getting a little reckless, isn’t he?”

Louis shrugs, biting at the inside of his cheek, watching Harry chat up one of the venue’s staff. “Not really anymore than I expected.”

It’s true. Harry’s always been the one to spend more time toeing at the line than Louis, and after two and a half months of not seeing each other, his behaviour isn’t anything Louis couldn’t see coming. He’s flirty even when he’s not trying to be, so of course he’s going to spend most of his time here laser focused on Louis.

“Right. Well, if he gets anymore reckless he might as well just go outside and shout that he wants to give it to you right now,” Stan says, nudging Louis harder. “He was a lot more careful four years ago.”

There’s no judgment in Stan’s tone. All of his friends know about the thing between him and Harry, call it The Thing That Was Never Really A Thing behind Louis’ back, capital letters included. Louis has seen a couple of the text chains, knows that in one way or another all of his friends have been ready to catch him if it ever blew up in his face. It’s not something they talk about, usually – fuck, Louis and _Harry_ don’t even talk about it – but it’s not exactly a secret, either. 

Stan, though. Stan has been Louis’ best friend since before he can remember, and he knows better than most how Louis feels about all of it.

“He’s – ” Louis says, one hand opening up helplessly, struggling to find the words. 

“He’s ready,” Stan cuts him off. “You should probably think about whether you are.”

With that, he goes to help Harry with the tea. Louis sighs and resists the urge to scrub his hands over his face.

Touring as a solo artist is, in some ways, a lot easier than it was with One Direction. The schedule isn’t nearly as crazy as it used to be, more time spent playing actual shows than doing promo, which means that Louis actually gets to sleep now. Sleep is never going to be something he’s going to complain about.

That being said, he does still have to do promo. Now it tends to be complied into the same few days, though, and really only in the bigger cities, so there’ll be a busy few days before it tapers off into something much more manageable. It’s one of those days now, where he doesn’t have a show to do but he does have what feels like endless promo, sitting by himself in radio stations and the like. The only familiar faces he’s seen since six o’clock this morning are people who work for him, and that’s probably the biggest change. There used to be days on tour he would _wish_ that he wouldn’t have to see any of the boys, but now they’re all he wants. To not have to be doing this alone.

Knowing that Harry’s lounging in Louis’ hotel room only makes it worse. He’s here, in the same city, could probably be here in under an hour, and Louis still has to get through this alone.

By the time he gets back to the hotel, it’s nearing nine in the evening. He’s tired, head too heavy for his shoulders, and all he wants to do is crawl into bed and sleep for the next ten hours. Doing interviews has never been his favourite part of the job, but lately it’s like everything he dislikes about them has been compounded and exaggerated.

There’s part of him that wants to show up with Harry at his side at the next one just to shake things up a little. There’s a lot fewer questions about favourite superheroes and the like now, but they’re still usually questions he’s answered a thousand times before.

When he steps into the room, it’s dark. For a second, Louis thinks that Harry’s just sleeping. It’s early, but it’s not like either of them have really had normal sleep patterns over the past ten years. He flicks on the light, casting his gaze in the direction of the bed.

It’s empty.

Louis frowns, backtracking to the door and pulling it open, sticking his head out. “Have you seen Harry?” he asks Alberto.

“Think he went down to the gym,” Alberto says. “Keith went with him. Probably wasn’t expecting you back yet.”

Louis doesn’t bother trying to wipe the frown off his face. “Thanks,” he says, and lets the door swing closed again. Faced with the quiet emptiness of the room, he feels less tired now. Still tired, but less like he’s actually going to fall asleep.

If Harry hadn’t disappeared, Louis would force him to entertain him. He could go next door and bother Stan or Calvin for a while, but that feels like more effort than he’s willing to put in right now.

If Harry wasn’t here at all, Louis would probably have texted Luke to come to his room. They’d watch shitty telly for a while, and then they’d end up screwing around. It would be casual and fun, and Louis probably wouldn’t have thought about Harry at all during it.

Right now, he can’t stop thinking about Harry. About the way he looks at Louis sometimes, gaze deep and dark, like he’s thinking about the things he’d do to him if they did those kind of things together. It’d be a lot different than it is with Luke, Louis is sure of that. Luke is fun, and sex with him is always good. He knows Louis’ body, the things he likes, the things that make him feel good. There’s a reason they still screw around together after all these years.

Harry, though. Louis catches him looking sometimes, and it’s less like it would be fun and easy with Harry and more like Harry wants to tear him into pieces just so he can be the only one who knows how to put Louis back together.

Thinking about it is making Louis hard. He rubs his palms against his thighs, the denim of his jeans scratching at his skin. He’s not going to jerk off, not when Harry’s going to be back any minute. The last thing he needs is for Harry to walk in and catch him writhing around naked on the bed, one hand on his cock and the other with three fingers buried in his arse.

It’d have to be three fingers. He’s seen Harry’s cock, knows how big it is. Felt how big it is all those times in a bunk late at night, with Harry on top of him, three seconds away from kissing him. Any less than three fingers and it wouldn’t fit in him. Thinks that Harry’s probably thought about that too, probably wanked himself raw to the thought of that, how much he’d need to open Louis up before his cock would fit, how much time he’d have to spend fingering him open. Licking him open, maybe. God knows Harry’s got a bit of a oral fixation, always chewing on a piece of gum or a knuckle. He’d probably want to get his mouth on Louis’ arse the first chance he got.

“Jesus,” Louis says out loud. He rubs his hand over his face roughly, telling himself to stop thinking about it. Thinking about it isn’t going to do him any good right now.

Telling himself not to think about it only makes him think about it more. Images filter through his head, quick and fleeting, all the different ways they could be together. All the ways Harry would want them to be together. All the ways Louis would let him fit them together.

He busies himself tearing his bag apart to get some clean clothes out for after his shower. Then he puts the bag back together, actually taking the time to fold everything properly. He’s trying not to watch the minutes tick by on the clock, and it’s a lot harder than it should be. There’s a part of him that feels disgruntled that Harry’s not here right now. Harry is supposed to be here visiting him, not making himself sweaty in a hotel gym.

Louis knows Harry's gym routine well enough that he can picture it. The time he spends on the treadmill, lifting weights, all of it. 

He also knows the way Harry looks when he's been working out. The way sweat builds up on his face, in the hollow of his throat. The flush on his face, the tangle of his hair even when he puts it up. It’s a little different now that his hair is shorter, swings around his face more, and as much as Louis complains every time Harry cuts it, there’s no denying that it looks just as good short as it does long. There’s still enough there that he’d be able to tangle his fingers in it, rub them against Harry’s scalp and demand things that Harry’s already working on giving him.

Not thinking about it is _definitely_ not working. Louis swallows, forcing himself to his feet and picking up the remote for the telly, flicking it on. Maybe if he finds something to watch it’ll take his mind off – this.

The door swings open before he can settle on anything. Louis looks over at it. He feels caught, standing in the middle of the room, arousal still slithering through his veins. Almost like he’s naked, even though he’s fully clothed.

“Hey,” Harry says, closing the door behind him and locking it before he steps into the room. “You’re back earlier than I thought you’d be.”

“Alberto told me you went to the gym,” Louis says. He forces his gaze back to the telly, flipping through channels too fast to be able to tell what’s playing on any of them. Harry looks the way he always does after a workout, and Louis can’t look at him for too long without wanting him more than he normally does.

“Yeah,” Harry says. There’s a soft thud like he’s let his gym bag hit the carpet. “Are you okay?”

Why is there never anything on? So many channels on this telly and there’s nothing worth watching.

“I’m great,” Louis says, a little too fast.

There’s a bit of a pause. “Okay,” Harry says slowly. “So there’s a reason you’re just standing in the middle of the room pretending like you’re paying attention to what you’re doing?”

Louis sighs, tossing the remote on the bed behind him without bothering to turn the telly off. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

He heads towards the bathroom, only remembering that he put his fresh clothes on a chair when he’s almost there. He’s not going to go back for them, so he scowls to himself and continues, only to get intercepted by Harry when he’s almost made it.

“Don’t do that,” Harry says, wrapping an arm around Louis’ shoulders and pulling him towards his body.

“Do what?” Louis asks.

Harry turns the touch into a proper hug, pulling Louis into his chest and wrapping both of his arms around him. “Ignore me,” Harry says into Louis’ ear. “I love you a whole hell of a lot, but you know I can’t stand it when you try to ignore me.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you, Harry, Jesus,” Louis says. He has to ignore the part of him that wants to melt into the hug, let Harry hold him until everything is right again. It’s a lot harder not to give in to it than Louis needs it to be right now.

“Right,” Harry says. For once in his life, he lets it go, seemingly content to stand there with Louis pulled up against his chest. The longer they stand there, the more relaxed Louis gets, tension seeping out of his muscles one at a time. It’s nice, because it’s always nice when Harry hugs him, but Louis can’t forget that five minutes ago, he was thinking about Harry touching him in a way that’s much different than this.

Louis feels small and tired, caught up in the circle of Harry’s arms. It’s moments like these that always have him thinking about all the things he’s missing out on by not being with Harry properly. It’s also moments like these that lead to some of his most reckless behaviour.

“Do you want me to run you a bath?” Harry asks. He’s the one covered in sweat from his workout, and he could probably use it more than Louis could.

Slowly, Louis shakes his head. There’s a question on the tip of his tongue about why Harry does all of this for him, even when Louis is making it next to impossible. He swallows it down, playing with a loose thread on the hem of Harry’s t-shirt.

Jamie must have gotten his bags to the hotel. This definitely isn’t the shirt Harry had been wearing earlier. Louis hadn’t even asked.

“I don’t need you to take care of me all the time, you know,” Louis says. It’s a statement that would probably have more of an impact if he didn’t say it with his face still pressed against Harry’s shoulder, but he can’t bring himself to pull away.

Harry doesn’t go tense the way Louis was expecting him to. He smooths his hand down Louis’ back and says, “I know. I want to.”

Louis swallows hard, closing his eyes. His arousal had been fading, bit by bit. It comes back full force now, hitting him like a goddamn sledgehammer out of nowhere. Of all the things Harry could have said, _I want to_ is probably the best. Maybe even the only thing he could have said that doesn’t have Louis bristling.

“You shouldn’t,” Louis says, quiet.

“Baby,” Harry says. There’s something in his voice, catching, not quite hesitant, “I’m always going to want to take care of you. It’s kind of my default setting.”

Louis knows. He wants to feel bad about it, at least a little bit guilty. He doesn’t.

“C’mon,” Harry says. He pulls out of the hug and takes Louis’ hand, leading him to the bed. His hands are gentle as he guides Louis down onto the mattress, underneath all of the sheets and blankets, then climbs in after him, arranging them so they’re lying on their sides, face to face.

The way he’s watching Louis’ face has Louis biting at his bottom lip, trying to prevent more words from spilling out. After he’s already done it, he realizes that it might look like he’s trying to be sexy or something and lets it pop free, wet with saliva. Which might be even worse, he realizes, as Harry’s eyes flash with something that Louis can’t label as anything other than desire.

“I’m going to be here for you,” Harry says. He touches Louis’ face gently with just the pad of his thumb. “No matter what.”

Louis has to close his eyes again. He grabs for Harry’s wrist, holding it. “Ditto,” he says roughly.

“So now that we’ve established that nothing you do is going to make me go anywhere, what do you need?”

Louis has no idea what he needs right now. That’s part of the problem.

“Just hold me for a while,” he whispers. That’ll have to be enough for now.

Harry does, and it is.

It’s just gone one a.m. and Louis is three drinks in. He doesn’t normally drink this much after a show, but tonight everyone was bored and rowdy, and being stuck on a bus with nothing else to do kind of leads itself to drinking and talking shit about each other. There’s music playing loudly, something upbeat and catchy.

Louis isn’t drunk. He’s not a lightweight, three drinks isn’t going to do him in, even if he hasn’t eaten yet and he’s kind of exhausted from being up onstage. That being said, he is more than slightly tipsy. Mostly everyone is in the back lounge, where Louis is, talking over each other and the music. It’s too loud to hear himself think, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Harry’s not here. He’s up in the kitchenette, making Louis something to eat, except he’s been gone for a long time and Louis is hungry. Louis clambers to his feet, stepping over people’s legs and discarded shoes. He needs to pee anyway, and then he can check what’s taking Harry so long. At this rate he better be making Louis something amazing.

Luke whistles at him as Louis makes his exit. Louis is drunk enough to give his arse a little extra wiggle, slamming the bathroom door just for the hell of it. He pees, washes his hands, and then wanders towards the front of the bus to find Harry.

“What are you doing?” he asks, coming to a slow halt, still in the hallway. Harry’s lying on the floor, holding his phone up above his head as he scrolls through it. He’s wearing one sock and a pair of Louis’ sunglasses. Also a pair of shorts and a shirt, but those things are fairly normal.

“Waiting,” Harry says like it’s obvious.

“Right,” Louis says slowly. “I meant more along the lines of why the fuck are you wearing sunglasses inside? At night?”

“Louis,” Harry says, gravelly and deep, “I need them to see into the oven without burning my eyes.”

Sure, because that makes sense. “What are you making me?” Louis asks, changing the subject. Standing is very tiring, and there’s not much room in here. Really, the only option he has is to drop down on Harry’s legs, trying to peer into the tiny glass front of the toaster oven.

Harry grunts, legs shifting underneath Louis’ arse. He’s still looking at his phone, but it’s closer to his face now. “It’s a surprise.”

Louis gives up trying to see what it is and turns his full attention back to Harry. He smacks Harry’s stomach with the back of his hand, wiggling a little to get Harry’s knee out of the back of his thigh. “How much longer is it going to take?”

Sighing, Harry lets his phone fall down against his chest, looking at Louis from under the sunglasses. Louis has no idea how he can even see properly with them on – even if it wasn’t night, there’s not much light in this room. “It’s going to take as long as it takes.”

That’s not an answer Louis can live with. He huffs, slapping Harry’s phone off his chest so he can lie down too, squished right up against Harry’s side with an arm across his stomach. “I’m hungry _now_ ,” he complains.

“You’re annoying now,” Harry says mildly. His shoulder is warm underneath Louis cheek, hoodie soft. Louis rubs his cheek against the material, letting his eyes drift closed.

“That’s no way to treat your betters, Harold,” Louis tells him, as haughtily as he can with his eyes closed. Now that he’s closer to the oven, it smells like pizza. His stomach grumbles happily. It’s probably just one of those shitty grocery store mini pizzas, but he doesn’t care. Pizza is pizza.

Harry has had one more drink than he has. It must be why he reaches down and squeezes Louis’ arse with both hands, saying, “There’s definitely at least one part of you that’s better than me, baby.”

Louis squeaks a little, turning his entire face into Harry’s shoulder. He’s tipsy enough that his coordination isn’t good enough to stop the rest of his body from following suit, ending up half on top of Harry with his arse still in Harry’s hands. He pushes himself up onto an elbow, looking down at Harry’s face. “You call me baby a lot,” he says. It comes out conversational and fluid, and the thing is, Louis hadn’t actually meant to say it.

Maybe he’s drunker than he thought he was.

To his credit, Harry barely even blinks. It’s probably more of a testament to his familiarity with Louis’ penchant for abrupt conversational changes than anything else. “Would you rather I call you something else?”

That’s a big question. Louis swallows, pushing himself up to sit astride Harry’s hips properly. It’s not a question he can answer with his face that close to Harry’s, when he can see exactly how deep Harry’s dimples are, that the left one is deeper than the right.

Louis’ favourite has always been the right one. It never gets as much attention as the left does, and that’s just not fair.

Harry taps a couple fingers against Louis’ hip. “Baby,” he says, pulling Louis back to the conversation. It’s prompting, and he doesn’t even seem to realize that he’s said _baby_ instead of Louis’ name.

“Do you want to call me something else?”

Harry rolls his eyes, hands sliding up Louis’ hips to slip under the hem of his shirt, both of them curling around his bare sides. “Are you going to keep avoiding the question if I ask again?”

If Louis was a bit more sober, he might. Harry’s right here, though, letting Louis sit in his lap, making him food because Louis is hungry, and he’s the person who always makes Louis feel better, no matter what the issue is. So. Louis feels like he owes it to Harry to be honest.

“I like it,” he says. The words barely come out, so he clears his throat and says it again. “I like when you call me that.”

Harry’s eyes are still hidden by the sunglasses. The rest of his face is saying something, though, and Louis needs to be able to read his eyes to understand it. He plucks the glasses off Harry’s face and tosses them behind him, uncaring of where they land. The green of Harry’s eyes is deep, pulling him in, and it matches what the rest of his face is saying. That he likes that Louis likes it.

Louis clears his throat again and says, “So we don’t need to keep talking about this, right?”

“You’re the one who started this conversation,” Harry reminds him, sliding one hand up Louis’ back. He puts a little pressure into it, like he’s trying to coax Louis into leaning back down, and if Louis was standing his knees would be going a little weak.

It takes basically all of Louis’ willpower to resist the pressure, and he doesn’t even know why he’s doing it.

“When’s my pizza gonna be ready?” Louis asks. There’s something in his throat that’s making his voice sound a little different.

“Baby,” Harry murmurs, all slow, cracking syllables, putting more pressure against Louis’ back. Heat crackles deep in Louis’ belly, skin going tight from it. It feels like there’s a knife buried deep inside of him, slicing him open all the way down to the bone, leaving nothing but want and anxiety.

Louis gives into the pressure before Harry can open his stupid beautiful mouth and say anything else, hands braced against Harry’s shoulders as he bends down. Now that he’s moving, Harry’s hand continues its course up Louis’ back until he’s gripping at the back of Louis’ neck. Louis can feel the way his lips part, breath catching in his throat. Harry’s guiding him down, and there’s something that feels right about the fact that their first kiss is going to be on a tour bus passing through some small town in rural America.

The oven dings. Louis ignores it, still leaning down, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Their mouths are only a few centimeters apart, so close to kissing Louis can almost taste it. The oven dings again, insistently, and just before their mouths meet someone behind them shouts, “Pizza!”

It’s Oli’s voice, happy and loud as he steps over them, nearly crushing Louis’ head in the process, completely oblivious to what he’s interrupted.

Louis sits back up, pulse still thrumming in his veins. Harry’s mouth quirks up into a slow smile, left dimple just starting to appear as he mouths, “ _Baby_ ,” up at him.

Louis forces himself to roll his eyes, slapping Harry’s cheek lightly as he pushes himself to his feet and stalks his way back into the lounge. Harry brings him the pizza and a fresh beer a few minutes later, so Louis supposes he can forgive him. 

Eventually.

Louis wakes up in the middle of the night, cold and alone. It takes him a few minutes to put together why that is and come to the realization that Harry’s not coming back anytime soon. He fumbles a hand out from underneath the sheets and jabs at his phone until the screen lights up, way too bright. He squints at it until he can make out the numbers.

4:04am.

He considers it a little longer. He’s not as warm as he was when Harry was in the bed with him, but he’s still warm enough that he could go back to sleep pretty easily.

The floor is cold against his bare feet as he slides out of the bunk. There’s light filtering under the curtain that separates the bunks from the lounge, dim and muted. He slips through it, trying to stay quiet.

Harry’s sitting on one of the couches, legs lying flat, head tipped to the side as he watches something on the telly with the sound muted.

“What are you doing?” Louis asks. There’s a joke about porn in there somewhere, but he’s too tired to be able to phrase it right. They only went to sleep a couple of hours ago.

Harry looks over at him. “Couldn’t sleep, so I decided to see what’s on.”

His voice is soft, tired. Louis looks at him properly, frowning. He’s cradling his wrist a little, fingers braced against it gently. “Is your wrist hurting again?”

Like he’s just noticed he’s holding it, Harry looks down at it. “A bit.”

Louis sighs to himself, turning around to go to the kitchen and get some ice. It only takes a minute, and then he’s back in the lounge, ice pack in hand. Harry reaches out for it once he’s close enough, clearly expecting Louis to give it to him.

“Move the remote,” Louis says instead, gesturing to where it’s lying between Harry’s knees. Harry obeys, eyebrows furrowed like he doesn’t understand what’s happening. Louis climbs onto the couch, in the space between Harry’s legs. He settles down with his back to Harry’s chest and draws Harry’s injured hand into his lap, balancing it against his stomach before he puts the ice against it.

Immediately, Harry pulls his hand away. “You’re going to get cold,” he objects.

Louis’ sigh is purposefully loud this time. He leans forward, snagging the blanket off the end of the couch and spreading it out over them before he pulls Harry’s hand back into his lap. “Better?”

Instead of answering, Harry presses his entire face into the back of Louis’ head, inhaling long and deep, over exaggerated. Louis slumps back into him, pulling his knee up to support Harry’s hand better, and fishes the remote out from between the cushions. He turns the volume up, trying to determine what Harry’s been watching.

“You’re going to wake everyone,” Harry says, moving his face a bit so it comes out clearly. 

“Well that’s what they get for going to bed at such a reasonable hour,” Louis says. He keeps the volume low, just enough sound that he can hear it without having to strain his ears.

He still can’t tell what it is, though.

“This is what I missed most about touring with you,” Harry says emotionlessly. “Your constant concern for other people’s sleeping habits.”

Normally a comment like that would earn him an elbow to the ribs at the very least. Neither of them are wearing very much in the way of clothes, though, just their pants. Their bare skin is pressed together, and sure, that’s the way they went to sleep, but something about it always feels a little different when they’re just sitting out here in the open.

“You’re the one showing a complete disregard for people’s sleeping habits right now,” Louis says. Whatever Harry had been watching is dumb, so Louis changes the channel, flicking through quickly until he finds a re-run of _Friends_.

No matter where he is in the world, or what the time is, he can always count on there being an episode of _Friends_ playing.

“So sorry that I didn’t want to wake you by tossing and turning in a three foot wide space,” Harry says dryly. The cold of the ice is starting to seep through the blanket, against Louis’ skin, and grudgingly, he can admit that Harry was right about him getting cold.

Not to Harry, of course. In the safety of his own head.

“You ended up waking me up anyway, so either way you failed,” Louis tells him.

“As much as you’d like to believe otherwise, not everything is actually about you, you know.”

The warmth of their bare skin pressed together isn’t enough to keep Louis from driving his elbow backwards this time. Harry grunts, abs contracting as Louis keeps his elbow in his gut. “Your entire fucking _world_ revolves around me, you fucking liar.”

Maybe it’s the low, flickering light of the television, or the fact that the rest of the world is still and silent around them, slumbering on peacefully. Whatever it is, something makes Harry slide his good hand up Louis’ bare chest, until it’s resting over his heart, and say into his ear, “It really fucking does.”

He must be able to feel Louis’ heart hammering underneath his hand. Louis licks at his bottom lip, shifting backwards so his arse is pressed more firmly into the spread of Harry’s thighs. He clutches tighter at the ice pack, fumbling for something to say that isn’t just outright begging for Harry to fuck him.

What are they even _doing_. It’s been four years, and it’s taken them eight days to fall back into the same habits they had when they were touring together. Harry shouldn’t be here right now. He should be off somewhere, in L.A. or London, doing whatever it is he does when he’s not attached to Louis’ hip. He shouldn’t be here, making Louis feel like this all over again, like he’s the only person Louis will ever need.

He wonders, in the sanctity of his own head, if he asked Harry to kiss him right now, if Harry would say yes. The only reason he doesn’t ask out loud is because he’s pretty sure Harry would.

“You’re a lot pushier than most people give you credit for, you know that?” Louis says eventually. It’s the safest thing he can think of.

Harry sighs a little. It’s not an exasperated sigh, or an angry one, just a noise that says that this is more or less the result he expected. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t push anymore, just holds Louis tight against his chest, and Louis lets him.

Louis always lets him. Besides, he has to keep the ice against Harry’s wrist for at least ten more minutes. If he lets Harry do it himself he’ll probably fall asleep and end up accidentally icing his cock.

“Your nails are getting chipped again,” Louis says after a couple minutes of silence, looking at Harry’s hand in his lap. 

Harry’s breathing has gone deep and even behind him. Louis elbows him again so he won’t fall asleep. He’s the one who woke Louis up in the first place by not being there, he doesn’t get to fall back asleep now. “You did them all black this time.”

Normally he’s got at least a couple with brighter colours on them, pinks and purples and reds. Blues, sometimes.

“Wanted them to match your little emo heart.” 

Louis doesn’t have to look to know that Harry hasn’t opened his eyes. He goes to elbow Harry again, just for the comment, but Harry’s quicker, wrapping his good arm around Louis’ chest and pinning his arm to his side. “I’m not emo,” he complains. He can still reach Harry’s hand, so he starts picking at his chipped polish, flicking away little flecks of black.

“Uh-huh,” Harry mumbles. He doesn’t pull away from it, lets Louis make it look worse. “What’s your opinion on MCR versus The Used again?”

Louis heaves out a big sigh, slumping back against Harry a little harder. “Why do I talk to you.”

He feels like it’s a pretty valid point.

Sometimes, Harry makes a lot of noise when he enters a room. It can be funny, considering how careful he tries to be the rest of the time, concentrated on keeping all of his limbs in check. He’s doing it right now, banging around as he closes the door behind him and rummages through bags like he’s looking for something.

Any thoughts Louis had about taking a nap are flitting out of his brain. He sighs to himself, pushing his face harder against the pillow. He didn’t bother drawing the curtains fully closed before he laid down, so there’s still some light filtering in through the window, enough that Harry must be able to see what he’s doing.

After a minute, the rustling stops. Louis turns his head a little, opening his eyes again. There’s the soft pad of Harry’s bare feet coming towards him, muffled by the carpet. Some of the thumping must have been from him kicking off his shoes.

Harry’s quiet as he kneels down beside the bed, folding his arms on the very edge, right beside Louis’ arm. “Hey,” he says. His voice is soft, altogether very different from the amount of noise he was making a few minutes ago.

“Hi,” Louis mumbles, shifting so his knee is more or less underneath him, turning to face Harry more evenly. He’s sweaty, just came back from the gym. Louis pretended to still be asleep when Harry first got up, just so he wouldn’t get guilted into going with him.

“Are you hungry? I was thinking about ordering something from room service.”

Probably a kale smoothie or something disgusting like that. If that’s the case, Louis is out.

“Depends,” Louis says slowly. It’s too early to be having proper conversations. His brain doesn’t work right in the morning. “What are you thinking of getting?”

Harry’s necklace sways against his chest as he leans forward, metal glinting softly in the sunlight. Louis barely has to stretch his fingers out to loop them through it, holding it still. It feels warm and familiar in his hand, edges smooth against his palm.

“Pizza.”

The last time Louis saw him eat pizza in the morning, Harry was twenty-one and still drunk from the night before. Louis musters up a weak scoff, rolling his eyes for added effect. “You’re not going to eat pizza at nine o’clock in the morning. Are you forgetting that I know you or something?”

“Well, first of all, it’s nearly eleven,” Harry points out. He’s smiling, though, settling down more comfortably so he can rest his head on the bend of his elbow, tilted so they’re still looking at each other. It brings him a little closer. Louis draws more of the necklace chain into his hand. “Second, I could order pizza for you and something else for myself.”

His knuckles brush against Harry’s throat every time he exhales. Harry doesn’t seem to mind, so Louis doesn’t move them. “What are you going to have?”

“Dunno yet,” Harry says. “Coffee, probably. Maybe something breakfast-y.”

“Breakfast pizza,” Louis murmurs, more to himself than anything. “Did you turn up the A/C while I was sleeping again?”

Everything feels soft and languid. If he was a little warmer, it would be perfect. 

“No,” Harry answers. “You’re just cold because you’re not wearing a shirt and you haven’t bothered to pull the blankets up above your waist.” Instead of waiting for Louis to complain about it again, he does it himself, using one hand to pull the duvet up to Louis’ shoulders, tucking it around him carefully.

Louis doesn’t let go of his necklace, which maybe makes it a little harder than necessary. He doesn’t care.

“I’m gonna order something and then take a shower,” Harry says. “Do you want tea or coffee?”

“Both,” Louis says, thinking about a big breakfast spread with all the fixings. “And orange juice.”

“You know you’re not going to drink both,” Harry says. “Don’t complain when I ignore everything you just said and choose something for you.”

Louis was born for complaining. It’s one of his special gifts. It’s not going to matter, though – Harry’s going to order coffee for himself and tea for Louis, and then he’s going to let Louis drink half his coffee anyway. It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation.

“Both,” Louis insists, less stubbornly than he normally does. He’s still sleepy. “And orange juice.”

Harry sighs, reaching up to unclasp his necklace. He holds the chain in one hand and pries open Louis’ fingers with the other, letting it pool into Louis’ palm. Then he closes Louis’ fingers around it again and says firmly, “No.”

He gets up and phones in an order. Louis pulls his fist against his chest, underneath the blanket, keeping the necklace safe, and closes his eyes while he listens to the shower start up. Now that he knows food is coming, he’s starting to feel hungry. Especially because he definitely heard Harry order the orange juice.

Harry’s shower only lasts a few minutes before the water is shutting off again. He hasn’t closed the door all the way, so Louis can hear him brushing his teeth. It’s familiar background noise, and no matter how many times he tells Harry that it doesn’t make any sense to brush your teeth before you’ve eaten, Harry always insists that he has a _routine_.

The weight of his necklace in Louis’ hand is barely anything. He rolls it around on his palm, feeling the slide of the chain against his skin, strokes his thumb down the length of the cross. Everything feels pleasantly hazy, but not like he’s going to fall back asleep. Too bad. He could’ve made Harry feed him in bed.

Harry comes out of the bathroom in a pair of clinging black briefs and a towel on his head. The sight of it makes Louis smile, tucking it down into the pillow. He doesn’t have nearly enough hair for the towel to be necessary anymore, so at this point he just does it because he knows it makes Louis laugh. Louis uncurls his arm from against his chest and holds it out in Harry’s general direction, keeping his fist closed so the necklace can’t drop onto the floor.

Ignoring it, Harry goes around the other side of the bed and climbs in, settling with his back against the headboard. Louis shifts onto his other side so he’s facing Harry, pushing his knee against Harry’s leg. He holds out the necklace again, shaking it a little. Harry takes it, but instead of putting it back around his own neck he slides it onto Louis’, clasping it at his nape. The metal settles easily against Louis’ chest, warm and well-worn. Louis can’t help pressing his hand against it, keeping it flat against his skin.

“D’you wanna watch a film or something?” Harry asks, picking up the remote like he hasn’t just taken Louis’ breath away with one simple action.

Louis has to clear all the emotion out of his throat before he can speak. “Got an interview in like, an hour and a half.”

He pushes himself up on one elbow so he can shuffle his way into Harry’s side, blankets and sheet tangling up around his feet in the process. He can’t manage to let go of the necklace, holding it against his heart. Harry’s arm curls around his shoulders, pulling him in tighter. He smells good, like Louis’ body wash, skin still slightly damp, clean and fresh.

“Wow,” Harry says, voice slow and deep, soothing. “I’ve been here for a week and a half and you haven’t even bothered to make any time for me? What kind of friend are you, Lewis?”

“It’s because I don’t like you,” Louis explains pleasantly, drawing his knees up to his chest. He’s almost entirely in the circle of Harry’s arms now, and he likes that. There’s plenty of empty space on the bed, and they’re both squished into this three foot space like they’d be if they were on the bus. “This interview wasn’t even scheduled before you showed up. I made Sarah find a radio station that was interested despite the short notice so I wouldn’t have to spend as much time with you.”

No one ever holds him like Harry does.

“Well that’s just rude,” Harry says, sniffing haughtily. He doesn’t loosen his arm, keeps Louis tucked up so close to him the dark lines of his tattoos look a little blurry. “You’re going to make me sorry I ever agreed to this.”

Before Louis can shoot something back that’s way ruder, there’s a knock on the door and a call of _room service!_ They look at each other for a minute, unrelenting, before Louis sighs and climbs out from underneath the covers, snagging a shirt off a chair on his way to the door and pulling it on over his head. He opens it and accepts the food, exchanging pleasantries with the woman delivering it while Harry lounges on the bed behind him. He knocks the door shut with his foot and makes his way over to the little table in the corner of the room, sitting down with a heavy thump and his back to Harry.

Harry makes a lot of noise as he gets out of bed, clearly intentional and meant to get Louis’ attention. Louis uncovers plates of food and ignores him. There’s pancakes and bacon and eggs, some sort of hash brown and fruit, sausage. In front of that, there’s tea, an entire pot of coffee, and a jug of orange juice.

Instead of sitting down in a chair like a normal person, Harry comes right up behind Louis and drapes himself across his back, putting his mouth against Louis’ ear. “It looks good on you,” he says, thumbing at the chain of his necklace lying against the side of Louis’ throat, just above where it disappears into his shirt.

Louis has to force himself to keep breathing, fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Everything looks good on me, Harold,” he says. He can hear the unevenness of his own voice, and he knows, he _knows_ , that if he turned his head to the side a little Harry would kiss him.

It takes a lot of effort not to do that. Harry makes a little noise of agreement, mouth skimming over the curve of Louis’ ear, breath warm and minty against his skin. Louis has to close his eyes, gripping at the table harder. It shouldn’t be getting to him like this. All Harry’s doing is breathing on him, for fuck’s sake. They’re barely even touching.

“We should eat,” Harry murmurs, but his fingers are following the length of his necklace down into Louis’ shirt, the touch hot and gentle. Louis breathes out through parted lips, head tipping back against Harry’s shoulder. It takes every ounce of his self-restraint not to let his head turn, just a little.

“How’m I supposed to eat when you’re all over me like this?” Louis asks eventually, when it becomes clear that Harry’s not going to back off on his own.

Harry’s sigh is slow and languid, like he thinks he has the entire day to spend just here, touching Louis like this. His lips brush the soft, sensitive skin behind the lobe of Louis’ ear before he pulls away, anything but accidental. Louis swallows a desperate noise and opens his eyes, forcing his fingers to unclench from the wood. Harry’s always been way too good at turning him on.

Harry hadn’t been serious about wanting Louis to take time off for him, Louis knows that. He has Harry here, though, and he doesn’t know how much longer he’s going to be able to say that for, so he wants to make the most of it. Wants to be able to spend as much time together as possible, despite Louis’ tour schedule. And Louis has a lot more control over that now, so he can make it happen.

It only takes a couple of minutes of googling before he finds the perfect thing. Then it takes a couple of phone calls and a bit of convincing Alberto that they’re not going to do anything that’ll get them into trouble, and then it’s all set up.

“Mini golf?” Harry asks, eyebrow raised as he takes in the sign hanging above the door.

“Mini golf,” Louis says firmly, pulling the door open and going inside. “I don’t want to hear you complaining about how it’s not real golf. It’s three in the morning, real golf courses aren’t open at this time of night, even for egocentric millionaire popstars.”

He pauses, thinking about clarifying that he’s talking about Harry, not himself, but before he gets a chance to, Harry’s interrupting him. “And you hate real golf.”

“ _And_ I hate real golf,” Louis says. He marches up to the counter, where a bored employee is waiting for them, and gathers all of the necessary supplies for both of them while Harry loiters around behind him, looking at one of the arcade games.

Since he’s distracted, he has no say in what Louis writes in the slots for their names. Louis ponders it for a minute, tapping the tiny pencil against his bottom lip. Harry’s going to take over keeping the score within the first two holes, so it has to be good. 

He always claims Louis cheats. Louis does cheat, but that’s neither here nor there. Harry cheats all the time too. Louis hasn’t actually caught him cheating at mini-golf, but he’s sure that he does.

By the time Harry wanders back from the arcade games, Louis has picked out the names and written them on the scorecard, tucking it into his back pocket for safe keeping. It’s not his best work, the names, but it’s three a.m. He deserves a little leeway.

“Ready?” Harry asks from behind him. Doesn’t even have the decency to stop a normal distance away, pressed right up against Louis’ back, chin hooked over Louis’ shoulder. It makes Louis needlessly pleased.

“Ready,” Louis says. The employee has long since wandered away, clearly doesn’t care who they are. Maybe doesn’t even recognize them, although that would be a long shot. “I got you a green ball.”

Harry squeezes him around the middle. “Aw, baby,” he croons, not letting go as Louis shuffles them backwards enough that he’s not pressed into the counter anymore, leading them to the entrance.

He better hope that employee hasn’t recognized him, or else this will be all over the Sun in the morning. It’ll be even worse if the employee recognizes both of them.

Louis doesn’t care.

“I’m going first,” he announces at the first hole, shrugging his way out of Harry’s arms. It took them way too long to get here because Harry wouldn’t let go of him, and this place might be twenty-four seven but eventually there will be other people around.

Plus Louis has a tour to do, so he doesn’t have all day.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Harry says solemnly, holding Louis’ putter and ball in one hand while he shrugs out of his jacket, then swaps the items. He’s looking at Louis unabashedly, unashamedly, so Louis does the only thing that makes sense and wiggles his arse as he lines up his first shot.

It goes wide. It’s not terrible, and it’s far from the worst shot Louis has ever made playing this game, but he can _feel_ Harry smirking at his back. Louis shuffles over to where the ball has stopped, concentrating on lining up another shot. The ball still doesn’t get into the hole, but it gets closer, so he takes another swing.

It ends up taking five attempts before the ball goes into the hole. Louis scowls down at it for a minute before bending down to fish it out. When he turns around, Harry’s schooled his face into something semi-encouraging, as though he hadn’t literally just been laughing behind Louis’ back.

Louis points the end of the putter at him. “Not a word.”

Harry nods solemnly, getting himself into position to take his own shot, taking an extraordinarily long time to line it up. “Oh my god,” Louis groans, slumping against a fake tree. He should have grabbed extra balls from the bucket to throw at Harry when he’s being annoying. Probably would have needed the entire bucket, though, and that might have aroused some suspicion.

“I have a _process_ ,” Harry says haughtily, even though Louis knows for a fact that he doesn’t. He hums a few bars of something, standing over the ball, before he finally takes the shot.

It’s a hole-in-one.

“Ugh,” Louis says loudly. It’s probably not too late to go back for the extra balls.

Harry turns around, smirking at him, and yeah, Louis is _definitely_ going to go back for the bucket. “Do you want me to pretend to be bad so you can feel better about yourself?”

“Yes,” Louis says immediately, pulling the scorecard out from his back pocket and marking their scores. He gives himself a three and shoves it back before Harry can see it.

He does it a little too fast, judging from the suspicious look dawning on Harry’s face. “I brought rum,” Louis says, tugging his jacket off of Harry’s arm and fishing the flask out of the pocket, shaking it in Harry’s face.

The distraction doesn’t completely work, so Louis twists the cap off and takes a long, slow swallow from it. It does the trick, wipes the suspicious look off Harry’s face, changes it into something else completely. Louis coughs, wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, and offers the flask to Harry.

Harry’s slow to take it, gaze still fixed on Louis’ face, but he does, and Louis makes a break for the next hole the second Harry’s fingers close around it. He hadn’t meant to be as sexual about it as he had, and faced with Harry’s raw desire, his heart is beating a lot faster than normal.

He’s barely paying attention to the ball as he takes his first swing at the second hole. He’s lucky the putter even connects with the ball. It doesn’t get very far, the ball, and Louis swears under his breath.

“You’re terrible at this,” Harry comments from a foot or two behind him. He’s standing much closer than he needs to, always does, and Louis likes it entirely too much.

“I am amazing at everything I choose to do, Harold,” Louis informs him without turning around, making his way to where the ball had stopped. “I’m even better at this than you, probably.”

The only reason he doesn’t turn it into a bet is because Harry would take it, and then Louis would be out twenty bucks. If Harry even let him pay in American currency – sometimes he’ll demand it in completely arbitrary currencies for countries they haven’t been to in years. Louis has no idea what he does with it after he gets it.

“You are amazing,” Harry agrees, sounding way too honest about it for someone of Louis’ mini-golf skills. Which is to say, basically none. “What did you put down for the first hole?”

It’s a roundabout way of accusing Louis of cheating. Louis sniffs, lines up his next shot, and doesn’t answer. Harry, of course, takes that as an invitation to amble up behind him, pressing up against his back, and offers him the flask again.

Louis takes his swing, then takes the flask. The ball gets a little closer to the hole. He takes another swallow of the rum, letting it slip down his throat smoothly. It’s a good brand, because he has the money to afford the good brands now, and it only burns a little on the way down.

“I can’t believe you’re cheating already,” Harry says, grabbing the flask out of Louis’ hand and taking another swig from it. “You better not have put down that you got par.” 

Half-hearted, Louis swings the putter again. “Shut up with your fancy golf terms. No one likes you, you know that?”

At this rate, the game is going to take forever. How many holes does mini-golf usually have, like twelve? If there’s any more than twelve Louis is going to riot.

“Par isn’t a fancy term by any means,” Harry says. He puts his hands on the outside of Louis’ biceps and adjusts his posture, so Louis is standing a little straighter. “I don’t know why you tip to the side so much when we play mini-golf, it’s so weird.”

“I am _trying_ to concentrate, you giant yeti, get off of me,” Louis says, elbowing Harry back. He doesn’t slouch back over, and his next shot actually gets the ball into the hole. But not because Harry helped him.

There’s music playing on the sound system, tinny and far away. It’s something from the top forties, although Louis can’t hear it well enough to actually recognize what it is. He hums along to the beat of it, waiting at the other side of the hole for Harry to take his turn.

It takes Harry three strokes this time, at least. Louis clutches the flask between his knees while he puts their scores down, and it’s a mistake, pulls his concentration away, so he doesn’t see Harry coming until he’s already pulled the paper out of Louis’ hands.

“No,” Louis says reflexively, trying to grab it back, but it doesn’t take much effort for Harry to keep it from him.

Harry’s sigh is both immediate and gratifying. “Really?”

Louis shrugs at him, dropping his ball on the fake green grass. “It’s nice to be important, but it’s important to be nice,” he quotes solemnly, resting his foot on top of the ball so it stops moving. 

Harry rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, that one smile he has that hits Louis in the core of his chest sometimes, when he’s not paying enough attention to stop it. “I want to be mad that you’re _still_ insistent on calling me the names of different frogs, but I’m also impressed that you took the time to look up Kermit quotes and commit one to memory.”

“Are you sure it’s not something you’ve said?” Louis asks, swallowing another mouthful of rum. There’s a warmth in his stomach from the alcohol, easy and deep. It could easily have been something Harry has said. It sounds like him. Maybe Harry really _is_ Kermit.

“It’s not easy being green,” Harry says, so deadpan Louis ends up on the floor, he’s laughing so hard. It’s not that funny, and as a general rule he shouldn’t encourage Harry when he’s not actually being funny, but there’s something about it.

Harry sits down on the floor beside him, stretching his legs out. If there was anyone behind them, they’d be holding them up, only two holes in and already wasting copious amounts of time. There’s not, though, still just the two of them, as far as Louis can tell. 

“It’s cute that you think you’d be Animal if we were Muppets, though,” Harry says. He puts a heavy, casual hand on Louis’ stomach, resting it there. “You’re more of a Gonzo.”

The corners of Louis’ eyes are wet from laughter. He wipes at them delicately, with the sleeve of his shirt. “Do I even want to know why you know so much about the Muppets?”

“I have a lot of godchildren, Louis,” Harry drawls righteously, taking the flask back so he can swallow another mouthful of liquor. “How do you not know more about the Muppets with the amount of siblings you have? You could probably start an entire footie team just from your family.”

Louis wishes. That would be spectacular. “Which one is Gonzo, again?”

Harry fishes his phone out of his back pocket to look up a picture, holding it over Louis’ face. Louis squawks, indignant, batting at Harry’s arm. “Are you insulting my fashion sense again?”

There’s a quiet click as Harry shuts the screen off, laying his phone on the floor between them. He’s still leaning over Louis, one hand on his stomach, and, rather belatedly, it occurs to Louis that this would probably count as a date if they were together.

“No,” Harry says, before tugging pointedly at the waist of Louis’ ragged old joggers. “I could make a case for it, but no. You’re reckless and focused on performing when you’re playing a show, that’s all. Like Gonzo.”

“Fine,” Louis says. “I guess I won’t have to murder you after all.”

Slowly, Harry’s hand makes its way up Louis’ stomach to his chest, settling over his heart, palm flat and fingers spread out. Louis should probably consider himself lucky that it’s not trying to make its way under his shirt. 

“Thanks, I feel really special,” Harry says dryly. He doesn’t seem inclined to get up, content to look at Louis’ face. Louis breathes a bit deeper and rolls onto his side, picking at the frayed threads at the knee of Harry’s jeans.

They’re quiet for a few minutes. It’s a weathered, comfortable kind of silence, made that much better because Louis knows that Harry’s attention is still on him, despite his own eyes being fixed on the thread he’s trying to pull out of Harry’s jeans. He’ll never want anyone’s attention more than he wants Harry’s, he’s pretty sure.

“Do you want to go back to the bus?” Harry asks eventually, sliding his fingers under the arm of Louis’ shirt, resting against his bare skin. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Louis flicks his gaze up, giving Harry an unimpressed look. “I put all this effort into arranging this just for you, and you’re trying to get me to leave? Are you scared I’m going to beat you?”

“The only way you would beat me is if I let you have the scorecard back,” Harry says. “Which I’m not going to do, because you’re a fucking cheater.”

Louis struggles into an upright position. He is tired, but he doesn’t want to go back to the bus. Given the choice, he’ll always pick spending time with Harry over sleep. Plus he still has to find a way to steal the scorecard back so he can make sure he ends up winning.

“I’m a very honest person,” Louis says, using Harry’s shoulder as leverage to push himself all the way up onto his feet. Harry steadies him with a hand on the outside of his thigh, almost absently. Louis pats him on the face as thanks, and goes to pick up his putter.

“Of course you are,” Harry agrees.

Three holes later, Louis has yet to find a way to get the scorecard back. He’s losing badly, and much tipsier than when they started. Harry is, too, keeps laughing at the dumbest shit, which makes Louis laugh right back, and they’ve been here for hours, Louis is pretty sure. 

He’s trying to give Louis pointers on how to get the ball to do what he tells it to, except he’s doing it from sitting on a fake rock, and it’s doing absolutely nothing to actually help Louis’ game. In response, Louis does the only logical thing, which is to turn around and try to hit the ball at Harry instead of into the hole. He’s a bigger target, so logically it should be easier.

The ball misses him by about a foot. Harry doesn’t even have the decency to flinch, too busy laughing with both hands covering his mouth as though that’s going to do anything to hide it. Dramatically, Louis throws his putter onto the ground a few feet away and then throws his hands up in the air. 

“I hate golf!” he shouts. He’s being too loud, he knows, but he doesn’t care. People need to know about how much this game sucks, and Louis doesn’t mind being the one to tell them.

“Baby,” Harry chokes out, still laughing. He gets up from his perch on the rock, swaying a little unsteadily, and comes over to stand behind Louis, pressing his own putter into Louis’ hand, dropping his own ball down onto the greenery. “Here, lemme help you.” 

He wraps his hands around Louis’ wrists, arranging them on the putter, nudging one of his feet into a different position. Lines him up to take the shot, body pressing up against Louis’, warm and solid. He guides Louis’ hands through the swing, all over him, and the ball doesn’t go into the hole but it’s a lot closer than when Louis was doing it by himself.

“You missed,” Louis says, turning his head a bit to say the words right into Harry’s face. Harry’s already looking back at him, not even pretending to be watching the ball roll to a stop, eyes fixed on Louis’ face. Louis never feels as good as he does when Harry’s looking at him. Right now, he’s happy, leans back against Harry, lets him hold him up.

“Got closer it closer than you did, didn’t I,” Harry says. He’s still got his arms wound around Louis, holding him. It’s almost like a hug, tight and intimate. The flask is almost empty now, tucked away in Harry’s back pocket, next to the scorecard, and as much as Louis hates golf, this is fun.

It’s probably all the neon paint. Gets into his brain.

“Can I keep score now?” Louis asks, turning a bit, into Harry’s chest. Probably if he bit him Harry would let him do it.

“No,” Harry says. His hands slide up Louis’ arms, wrapping around his shoulders instead. “I’ll only put down four for this hole, though.”

As far as compromises go, it’s not a bad one, considering that the next swing will make at least eight. If they were being honest. 

“Fine,” Louis says. He could stay wrapped up in Harry forever, but eventually they’re going to have to leave this mini-golf haven. “Come help me get this ball in the hole.”

It would be easy to give up. If they were playing properly Louis would have already maxed out on strokes, so it’s not like it would matter if he gets it in or not. He wants to, though, and he wants Harry to help him.

Together, they shuffle over to the ball. Harry doesn’t leave his back, physically positioning Louis, breath warm against the back of his neck. It’s enough to get Louis’ cock perking up, interested in having Harry all over him like this. Harry touches him all the time, always way too intimately for friends, and it’s part of the reason they have a hard time spending extended periods of time together. Louis never tells him to back off, and Harry doesn’t do it of his own volition. 

“Don’t move your arms,” Harry says into his ear. “Just let me do all the work, yeah?”

Louis nods, too breathless to answer. He has to wonder whether Harry picked those exact words intentionally, and if he did whether he picked them specifically for Louis. He’s not – he’s not _lazy_ during sex, always puts the work in, always gives back, but. 

But. There’s no denying that he likes being able to let go a little, give up some control, and if there’s anyone who knows that it’s probably Harry. Doesn’t matter that they’ve never had sex.

“Yeah,” Harry says, all heat pressed up against Louis’ back, “Good. That’s good.”

He doesn’t even sound like he knows he’s saying it, giving the ball a gentle tap with the putter, sending it rolling towards the hole. It doesn’t go in, stops a few inches short, and the only reason Louis moves towards it is because Harry nudges him in the right direction. He’s not paying any attention to the ball anymore, all of his focus locked up on the heat of Harry pressed up against his back. It comes as a bit of a shock, sometimes, how solid he is when Louis leans back against him, leans into him, so much bigger now than he was at sixteen. He doesn’t even have to brace himself to support all of Louis’ weight, and now is not the time to be thinking about that.

Or maybe now is exactly the right time to be thinking about that, with Harry’s fingers circled around his wrists, grip strong and sure. Louis can’t help swaying a little, breath catching in his throat at the sound of Harry’s sharp inhale as their lower halves press together, too hard for either of them to be moving unconsciously.

“Baby,” Harry says in his ear, low and turned on. One of his hands lets go of Louis’ wrist to palm at his belly, pulling him back flush against Harry’s hips. “I really need you to stop shaking your arse at me.”

It’s so warm in here. Louis feels loose-limbed and pliant, barely resisting the urge to turn around in Harry’s arms and tip his face up towards him. Thinks that if he did that Harry wouldn’t be able to stop himself from going in for the kiss, and they’d be equally at fault if that happened. 

“Why,” Louis says, half complaining, half whining, and swears that he can feel Harry’s cock twitch against his arse.

“You know why,” Harry murmurs, but his hand is edging lower and lower on Louis’ belly. He’s been like this since he got here, so much less willing to stick to their boundaries, and Louis doesn’t think he can stop him anymore.

Doesn’t think he wants to.

He turns around in Harry’s arms, looking up at him from underneath his eyelashes, and Harry’s already leaning down to meet him, anticipation coiled thick between them. Everything about it is screaming that they’re gonna kiss, that they’re _finally_ going to kiss, and of course that’s when the noise of other people playing the hole behind them registers.

They break apart with practiced ease and finish playing the rest of the course. Harry doesn’t even say anything when Louis steals the scorecard back and rigs it so he ends up winning.

After his shower, Louis emerges from the bathroom clean and fresh and ready to go, already dressed with his hair styled. It doesn’t take him as long as it used to now that he knows what he’s doing and how much effort he’s willing to put in on any given day.

Instead of matching him in dressed-ness and ready-to-go-ness, Harry’s lying on the bed in pajama pants and an old t-shirt. Louis frowns, kicking at the side of the bed. “How are you not ready to go yet?”

Harry looks up from the book he had been reading, setting it down on top of his chest still spread out so he can keep his page. “I’m gonna stay in tonight, I think.”

Louis takes him in, his bare feet, the mess of his hair that’s no longer intentional, the look on his face. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Harry isn’t actually as much of an extrovert as he seems to be. He does this occasionally, skips out on the group dinner or a night at a club with an excuse at the ready in case anyone presses him on it.

Louis kicks his shoes off and climbs onto the empty side of the bed, settling his head on Harry’s shoulder and nudging at the book with his pinky. “What are you reading?”

“Weren’t you just about to leave?” Harry asks. His hand comes up to cover the book so it doesn’t go sliding off his chest, his other arm curling around Louis’ back.

“If I left now I’d be on time and ruin everyone’s expectations of me,” Louis says. “I don’t want people expecting me to be on time from now on. I’ll leave in half an hour and be appropriately fashionably late.”

He doesn’t ask if Harry wants him to leave. Harry’s idea of personal space might be different than Louis’, but it’s never not had room for Louis in it.

“If you left right now you’d still be twenty minutes late,” Harry points out. “Somehow I don’t think you have to worry about people’s expectations of you changing.”

“Shut up and read to me,” Louis orders. Harry sighs and doesn’t point out that Louis’ commands are contradictory. Obligingly, he starts reading, voice slow and deep. The sound of it puts Louis at ease. He turns his face into Harry’s shoulder and closes his eyes. He’ll leave in five minutes.

Maybe ten.

Louis is drunk. All around him, strobe lights are flashing. The music is loud and fast. People are dancing, and Louis is in the middle of his friends. He’s being loud, he knows, almost obnoxious about it, and no one’s stopping him because Harry’s not here. 

No one stops him until Luke puts a hand on his shoulder, that is, and yells into his ear, “You’re drawing a lot of attention, mate!”

Louis _is_ drawing a lot of attention. He turns to face Luke, looping his arms around his shoulders and moving to the beat. “Do you want another drink?” he yells back.

“Think you’ve had enough to drink, Tommo,” Luke says. His voice is quieter now that they’re pressed up together, low and amused.

Being this close to him reminds Louis of exactly how long it’s been since they’ve fooled around. The entire point of having Luke on tour with him is so that Louis can get laid on a regular basis. Getting laid on a regular basis makes him much easier to be around, he’s been told.

Usually by Luke, but that’s not the point.

Right now, thinking about having sex with Luke is only leading him to thinking about Harry. It’s bringing him right back to 2016, when the desire was at its worst, wanting things he couldn’t have, trapped on a tour bus with Harry and only so much distance he could put between them.

There’s a sudden twist in his stomach, sharp and alarming. Louis sighs, winding his arms around Luke’s neck instead, even though it means he has to rise up onto his toes in the process. “Are you upset with me?”

Luke pulls back so he can look at him, eyebrows furrowed. “What would I be mad at you about? Did you do something to my clothes again?”

“About Harry,” Louis says, his voice small. The confused look on Luke’s face says he didn’t hear Louis properly, and instead of repeating himself, Louis turns around and starts dragging Luke to a quieter corner.

The confusion on Luke’s face doesn’t lessen. The din of the club does, though, just enough that Louis doesn’t feel like he’s screaming into the void when he starts talking again. “Is it weird for you? Harry being here?”

“Harry’s not here,” Luke points out. “You wouldn’t be hanging off of me like this if he was.”

Coming from anyone other than Luke, it might feel like getting slapped directly in the face. Louis raises an eyebrow at him, hooking a finger in one of Luke’s belt loops. “So it is, then.”

“I’m sorry, are you mistaking me for someone else?” Luke asks, raising an eyebrow right back. He can’t raise just one of them, though, so his face ends up looking kind of squinty. _Good_. “If you wanted to be coddled right now you should be somewhere else.”

_Be with Harry_ goes unspoken, but it’s not like either of them don’t know what he’s talking about. Who he’s talking about.

“Can you talk to me like an adult for five minutes, please?” Louis asks impatiently. “You’re my friend and I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“What you want is to stop feeling guilty that you’ve always wanted him more than you want me,” Luke disagrees. This is probably not the best place to be having this conversation, but Louis is the one who started it. He can’t really complain. “What you _want_ is to get laid, but we both know that’s not going to happen as long as he’s here. Unless you suddenly decide to man up and get your life together.”

Louis would argue that his life is pretty well put together. He’s got a solo album and a sold-out tour, and that’s not even mentioning any of the success he had before that.

He knows that’s not what Luke is talking about, though. And no matter how Louis tries to explain it, the only other person who’s capable of truly understanding is Harry, and this is something they don’t talk about. It’s practically the only thing they don’t talk about.

“I’m not talking about Harry right now,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “I’m talking about you and me.”

“When Harry’s around there is no _you and me_ ,” Luke says. “When he’s around you avoid me like you think I’m contagious or something. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I’m going to respect your decision not to tell him that we have sex sometimes, no matter how dumb I think it is.”

He’s not making any effort to spare Louis’ feelings. It’s probably the most jarring difference between him and Harry – Harry always makes a concentrated effort to take care of all of Louis, including his feelings.

He’s also not wrong, is the problem. Louis hasn’t truly hid it from Harry the way Luke thinks he has, but he has spent ten years keeping a careful distance between the two of them. It’s easier to avoid telling someone something when the other someone isn’t around to spill the secret. This is the first time Harry and Luke have spent any extended amount of time in each other’s company.

Harry has to have noticed that. Louis doesn’t know why he hasn’t said anything about it. Mostly he’s just been counting his blessings that it hasn’t come up.

“Do you think I’m a shitty friend?” Louis asks, pressing a little closer to Luke, so he doesn’t have to say it quite as loud.

Luke sighs, draping an arm across Louis’ shoulders. “I think you make terrible decisions sometimes, but I have no idea what it’s like to be in your shoes, so who knows whether I’d actually do anything differently.”

It’s as much of an apology as either of them are going to give each other. Louis bites at Luke’s shoulder, just to hear him yelp, and then goes to buy them another round.

It’s not that late by the time Louis gets back to the hotel. He’s only had a couple of drinks, but he feels disgustingly sweaty from being pressed up against by so many people. He’s thinking idly about whether showering is worth the effort or not as he closes and locks the door behind him. 

The lights are off, but the bathroom door is open. Music is filtering out, something soft and slow. It looks like Harry’s got a couple of candles lit, just enough for shadows to flicker against the floor. Louis drifts towards the room without thinking about it, kicking his shoes off along the way.

Harry’s lounging in the bathtub, water up to his armpits. His hair is still too short to be put into a bun, so the ends are damp from where they’ve touched the water. It’s warm, steam fogging the mirror, and he’s got a glass of wine in one hand, hanging over the edge of the tub.

“You’re back,” Harry says. His lips curve upwards into a smile, like he doesn’t care that Louis has just walked in on him naked. He probably doesn’t. Probably wouldn’t even if he wasn’t something of a nudist.

“I’m back,” Louis agrees. The tiles are slippery under his feet as he crosses them, wet with condensation. It’s probably making his socks damp. He should’ve stopped to take them off.

He settles down on the floor at the side of the tub, taking the glass out of Harry’s hand and sniffing at the wine before taking a swig of it. “The rest of the bottle is on the table,” Harry says, low and amused. “You could have a glass of your own if you want.”

The sound of his voice is better than the music, soft and fond. Louis shrugs, switching the glass to his other hand so he can trail his right up the line of Harry’s arm to his shoulder. His skin is wet here too, little droplets of water clinging to it, but there’s no telltale flush in his face to say he’s been sitting here for a while. Might have just climbed in, then.

“This one is fine,” Louis says, a little belated. He lifts the glass to his lips and takes another sip. 

Water ripples as Harry shifts, turning towards him. There’s no bubbles in the bath, only the faint scent of citrus wafting upwards. He’s used the salts, then. His back must be hurting him again. “Did you have a good time?”

Louis shrugs again, pressing his fingers into Harry’s skin, just because he can. “It was alright. I missed you.”

The curve of Harry’s smile grows, dimples taking over his face. Louis sighs, resisting the urge to poke at them, if only because he’d have to lean up to do it. “I missed you too,” Harry says softly, earnestly. He reaches out to take Louis’ wrist, pushing his sleeve up to his elbow and trailing damp fingertips along his skin. “Thought to myself, the only thing that could make this bath any better is if Louis was here. And now here you are.”

“And now here I am,” Louis echoes thoughtfully. He is here now. Harry’s here now. They’re together, probably the most together they’ve ever been, without the background of the band, without having to watch their every movement, without all the pressure of before, and all of a sudden Louis doesn’t know why they’ve waited for so long.

It’s been four years since they went on hiatus. Louis had always thought that once the fame died down a bit, once it didn’t feel like the fate of their careers was resting on their shoulders, they’d have their time.

Four years. That sounds like long enough to him.

Louis stands up, stripping down to his pants quickly. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask for permission before stepping into the bath, sinking down slowly, giving Harry enough time to spread his knees, give Louis space to settle down. 

The water is still hot enough that he flinches at the first feel of it. He doesn’t stop to get used to it, squirming his way backwards, so they’re pressed together. Harry’s arm comes up to loop around his belly, casual and possessive, and everything about it feels right. As though this isn’t the first time they’ve done this.

“Looks like I was right,” Harry murmurs in his ear. Louis sinks into him, happy and warm. “It is better with you in it.”

Neither of them say anything about the way Louis’ briefs stick to his skin, the only thing preventing their bare skin from pressing together fully. If Louis had one more drink before coming back, he might have stripped all the way down before getting in.

“Everything’s better with me in it,” Louis says, letting his arms slip under the surface. The water level rises a little more, threatening to spill over the edge. They couldn’t have sex in here without getting water all over the floor.

“You know I’m not going to argue about that, baby,” Harry says, easy, and he’s the person Louis wants to leave a party early and come back home to. He’s been that person for so long Louis doesn’t even really remember what it was like not to want that.

They can’t have sex while Louis still has his pants on anyway. Not proper sex, anyway. Harry could slide his hand down, though, slip his fingers underneath the waistband until they can curl around Louis’ cock, grip him tight, touch him until he has Louis’ toes curling in the water. Mouth against the back of his neck, sucking a bruise in there. He’d like looking at it afterwards, Louis is pretty sure. Likes gripping Louis’ wrists and pressing him into walls too much not to want to see his marks all over Louis’ body.

“How was your book?” Louis asks, tipping his head back to rest against Harry’s shoulder. He can feel the shape of Harry’s cock against his arse, unashamed and familiar.

Harry shrugs, shoulder moving against Louis’ cheek. “Gave up after a few pages. Couldn’t concentrate on it so I decided to watch some telly instead.”

“You didn’t watch _American Ninja Warrior_ without me, did you?” Louis demands. He can’t really see Harry’s expression from this angle to know whether he has or not.

It’s so warm in here. Louis feels like he’s melting, but in the best possible way. He doesn’t even really mind that he’s still got his pants on. It feels similar to having swim shorts on in a hot tub. Just less bubbly.

“No,” Harry says with a little bit of a sigh, like maybe he had thought about it before realizing what Louis would have done to him if he had.

The warmth on Louis’ skin sinks into his chest, holding still there. He shifts, pushing his toes against the end of the tub so he can press himself back against Harry’s body more firmly. If he was a little braver, he would turn around so he’s sitting in Harry’s lap properly and kiss him. That’s where this is going. Where Louis wants it to go, anyway.

Harry slides his hand up Louis’ chest until it’s resting over his heart. If it wasn’t for the feel of his cock slowly thickening underneath Louis’ arse, he might think Harry was no more affected than normal. “What are you doing?” Harry asks slowly, quietly. There’s something heavy in the question, something expectant.

Louis shifts again, pulling his knees up out of the water so he’s sitting more or less sideways on Harry’s lap, rubbing his cheek against Harry’s chest. There’s a lot of answers to that question. Some are more honest than others. He’s the one who made the first move, though, and his heart is beating twice its normal rate in his chest. When it comes down to it – when it _really_ comes down to it, Louis has always thought that it’d be Harry who actually gets them there. Louis isn’t the brave one out of the two of them.

“Loving you,” Louis murmurs, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the vanity. He actually feels Harry’s breath catch, the way he goes still for at least thirty seconds before his chest expands, breathing again.

Neither of them move. Underneath him, Harry’s cock has gone fully hard. Louis sucks his lower lip into his mouth and thinks about taking his pants off so he can really feel it.

“Do you?” Harry asks eventually. “Love me?”

Disbelieving, Louis pulls back to look at him. Their wet skin slides together in the process, sending frissons of pleasure up his spine. “Are you fucking with me?” he demands. Sometimes Harry does that, usually when he knows it’s going to get a rise out of him at an inopportune moment.

Harry breathes out slowly, hands coming up to frame Louis’ face. He’s got a look on his face like he wants to do something more than that. “How much have you had to drink?”

It wouldn’t have made a difference if Louis had drank an entire bottle of vodka. There’s no amount of alcohol that could change the way he feels about Harry. Now that Harry says it, though, Louis does feel drunker than he thought he was. His head is swimming a little, pleasantly so. Not drunk, definitely not drunk, but tipsy. Enough that he didn’t think through the decision to take off most of his clothes and get in the tub with Harry.

“More than you,” Louis says, putting his head back on Harry’s chest. The water is cooling down around them. If they’re going to stay in much longer they’ll need to turn the hot tap back on. “Doesn’t change anything.”

Harry has to know that’s true. His cock is still responding like it thinks it’s true. Louis wiggles a little, just to make sure it stays interested.

“Okay,” Harry says. He puts his hands back around Louis’ waist, effectively stilling him. It doesn’t matter, though – his cock stays hard underneath Louis’ arse, and Louis hadn’t even noticed his own cock getting hard, but he is.

Neither of them say anything else. Louis closes his eyes, safe and warm curled up in Harry’s lap, knowing that Harry will take care of him. It should feel different, the way he said it this time, but it really doesn’t. He’s probably been saying it like that for the last ten years anyway. It’s not like Harry hasn’t heard it like that, hasn’t read between the lines. Harry’s always known, just like Louis has.

One piece of clothing. That’s all that’s preventing them from being naked together right now. Louis loses a few minutes daydreaming about it, the slippery slide of their skin together, the way they could heat up this water without having to turn the tap back on.

Eventually, though, the water does turn cold. Louis exhales slowly, pressing his face into Harry’s chest harder. “S’cold in here.”

It feels like Harry may have been thinking about them being naked together too. He’s still hard, nice and thick against Louis’ thigh, and if he wanted to have sex right now Louis would probably say yes.

“Yeah,” Harry says, rubbing at Louis’ back with one wet hand. “I’m getting all pruny. You wanna get out?”

Only if he still gets to sit in Harry’s lap. Louis clenches his teeth around the comment, nodding slowly. He waits until Harry’s hands fall off him before he pushes himself up, using Harry’s outstretched hand to steady himself. Once he’s out of the bathtub, he stands there, dripping on the floor, until Harry wraps a towel around him. It’s big and fluffy, warm, and Louis turns his face into Harry’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For always taking care of me.”

If he was a little bit more sober, he probably wouldn’t have said it. At least, not right now, mostly naked and dripping wet, trying not to give in to the temptation to look down and take a glance at Harry’s cock. It’s the reason Harry is still here, though. He’s never been able to walk away when he thinks Louis needs him.

Harry pulls him in a little tighter, his cheek pressed to the top of Louis’ head. The way he breathes out is a little uneven. “You’re making me real fucking emotional tonight, baby,” he whispers. Louis can’t help his laughter, rubbing his face against Harry’s wet chest.

“C’mon, put me to bed,” Louis says. It’s the only thing he can say that won’t give away every thought in his head.

“Yeah,” Harry says, stroking his hands idly across Louis’ back and shoulders. “Yeah.”

Neither of them move for a few more minutes.

Louis wakes up before Harry in the morning. He watches Harry sleep for a few minutes, face serene and quiet, and thinks about how much they’ve sacrificed over the years. Neither of them would be where they are without those sacrifices, and the thing that’s always made them worth it is the knowledge that they’re going to get it right eventually.

He knows Harry’s not going to bring it up unless he does. Louis watches him sleep a bit longer before he rolls out of bed and gets on with his day.

“I don’t know why you insist on doing this, you’re never going to get any better,” Louis says, watching Harry wobble on top of the skateboard. He’s not even moving yet, trying to find his balance, and it stopped being funny three minutes ago.

Okay, that’s a lie. It’s still funny. Louis is just bored and impatient.

“Practice makes perfect, Louis,” Harry says, spreading his arms out at his sides as if that’s going to help him any.

“You know what else would be perfect?” Louis says. “If we left and went to find a buffet restaurant.”

Harry doesn’t even have the decency to look over at him, swaying gently. “Alberto said that if you run off again he’s going to strangle you.”

“He’s not going to strangle me,” Louis scoffs. “I’ll just push you in front of me and run away.”

“Nice to know how easily you plan to sacrifice me,” Harry says. He’s steadier on the board now. Louis has to resist the temptation to kick him over. It would probably only take a gentle nudge to get him to lose his balance again.

“Please, Harold,” Louis says, slouching lower in the arena seat. “In all of my apocalypse plans, you’re always the first one I sacrifice. It’s literally a no-brainer.”

“Heyyy,” Harry protests, long and drawn out. “If you sacrifice me who’s going to carry all of your shit?”

Like Louis doesn’t have people lining up for the mere opportunity to touch his things, much less carry them for an extended period of time. There’s plenty of people other than Harry who would carry his stuff for him. It just so happens that Harry is the one who does it the most often, is all.

“I’ll have plenty of options,” Louis says. He stands up and holds both of his hands out to Harry. “Can we at least go to find something to eat in here, then? I’m literally starving.”

Harry takes them, but he doesn’t get down on the ground. Louis tugs at him, pulling him a few steps before he decides it’s not working properly and shakes one of Harry’s hands off so he can turn around, pull Harry behind him that way. 

“Figuratively,” Harry corrects. He’s wearing proper runners, at least, not them ragged boots he usually does, so he doesn’t fall off when Louis starts moving him.

“ _Literally_ ,” Louis says, moving forward so slowly he might die. Harry’s fucking heavy, even on wheels. “I’m going to waste away if I don’t get some food in my belly within the next ten minutes. You’ll have to show up to my funeral in a proper suit for once, none of those bedazzled ones you have at home. Can’t have you showing me up at my final viewing.”

There’s callouses on Harry’s fingers that he didn’t used to have. They’re rough against the back of Louis’ hand, distracting. He doesn’t know who told Harry that he could learn guitar, but he definitely didn’t hear it from Louis.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Harry says, and Louis can hear his eye roll without having to face him. “I have to show up in a somber black suit and throw myself on your casket, begging to be buried with you. I got this.”

Despite himself, Louis smiles. They’re not even out of the general admission area yet and Louis’ arms already hurt. If Harry’s not going to get off the skateboard there’s really only one thing Louis can do. He stops, turning around to face him.

“Alright, move your gigantic feet,” he orders, and wedges himself into the tiny amount of space Harry’s left. Harry teeters alarmingly, clutching at Louis’ hips while he gets himself situated, making tiny little distressed noises like it’s not a mere two inch drop to the floor.

“Lou,” Harry says, a little panicky. Louis likes it, has always secretly liked being better than Harry at things because it seems like there’s so few things that’s true of.

“Don’t be a baby, you’re the one who wanted to learn how to skate,” Louis points out. He starts them off slow, rolling along the floor barely any faster than he had been pulling Harry. It’s more complicated than skateboarding by himself, for sure, and he doesn’t trust that Harry’s not going to fall off for no reason and take Louis with him, but it’s doable. 

Tandem skateboarding. It would be more impressive if Harry wasn’t clutching him so tight. They roll towards the door, picking up speed a little when Harry manages not to kill them both by falling off.

It’s never going to last more than a few minutes, though, not with Harry’s innate ability to trip over his own two feet. They only make it to the door before Louis has to jump off to avoid both of them crashing. He watches Harry slowly roll through with his head cocked to the side.

“Just give yourself a little kick to keep going,” Louis calls after him encouragingly. 

Instead of doing that, Harry comes to an agonizingly slow stop, still wobbling on top of the board. He waits until he’s completely stopped moving to fall over, face first onto the floor.

Louis sighs and goes to fetch a bottle of water to dump on his head. Idiot has it coming.

Getting stoned after the show is probably a bad idea. Louis is already a pretty tactile person, and when he’s high it basically doubles. When he’s around Harry and high, all he wants to do is sit in Harry’s lap and let Harry stroke his back, murmur nonsense into ear and hold him all night long.

When Harry’s high, he gets horny. Louis knows this. It’s another reason breaking out the weed is a bad idea. He’ll be in Harry’s lap with Harry’s cock pressing up against his arse, the unmistakable heavy press of it, and Louis will want to suck it. So. A bad idea, all around.

He should have been telling himself all of this an hour ago, before he took his first hit. He’s trying to control himself, he really is, sitting beside Calvin on a two-seater and curling into him instead. Harry’s all the way across the room, on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him, talking animatedly to Oli about something. He’s not even paying attention to Louis. He’s way too good at paying attention to things that aren’t Louis.

Other conversations are flowing around him. Louis hasn’t said anything in a while, and he doesn’t have anything to say now that isn’t a demand for attention. He lifts Calvin’s arm, pulling his legs up onto the cushion and lying down with his head in Calvin’s lap. Calvin barely even reacts, petting Louis’ hair idly, which is almost good enough. Resolutely, Louis closes his eyes, breathing in the thick smell of smoke. He can control himself just fine.

If it was Luke, Louis would end up blowing him. Squished together in one of their bunks, probably, with not nearly enough privacy, and he’d let Luke come in his mouth and get him off with his hand afterwards. It’d be quick and easy, nothing intense or thought-provoking about it. Luke would put his fingers in Louis’ hair, pull a little if he thought Louis was in the mood, and his only commentary would be able how good it felt.

As a general rule, Louis tries not to think too much about what it would be like with Harry. It’s usually easier than this, even when he’s high. It probably has something to do with Harry being in the room. Louis can’t get his brain off of it, what it could be like with Harry’s cock down his throat. He’d be rougher than Luke, probably. Touch Louis with big hands that know his body better than they should. Talk to him about how good Louis is at taking it, how pretty he looks when he’s on his knees for him, how he’s gonna come down Louis’ throat and how Louis is going to swallow it, isn’t he? 

Louis holds his breath, drawing his knees up to his chest and tucking himself into a tight ball. He’s half-hard in his joggers, the uncomfortable press of his own cock against his pants obvious. He needs to stop thinking about it.

All the conversations continue over Louis’ head, buzzing like static. He doesn’t know what any of them are about, couldn’t pay attention if his life depended on it. It’s a relief when the bus rolls to a slow stop half an hour later. He’s up like a shot, fleeing for the sanctity of outside without offering a word of explanation as he goes.

They’re at a truck stop. It’s almost two in the morning, so the only other people around are haggard looking travelers and a handful of truckers. Louis ignores them all, slipping between gas pumps towards the building. If he comes back with an armful of snacks he can at least pretend that his weirdness is a normal stoned weirdness and nothing else.

At the last second, he veers off to the side, going behind the building instead. Alberto would yell at him if he were around, but he’s probably asleep by now. Louis crouches down, back up against the wall, and tries to breathe.

It’s still hot. It’s not muggy anymore, thankfully, but the air is warm around him. The brick of the wall is cool against his back. There’s only a few lights back here, slowly giving way to the darkness of what looks like some kind of field. He could run out into the middle of it, get lost in it, and maybe then everything would be a little bit easier.

Footsteps crunch slowly towards him, sounding heavier than anyone wearing trainers. Louis keeps his head bowed, breathing into his arms. He’s entirely unsurprised when a hand touches the back of his neck, bare from the way his head is bent.

“Calvin thinks you’ve run off to join the circus,” Harry informs him. His voice breaks the silence of the night, calm and slow. 

Louis huffs into his knees. Doesn’t move. “Would if they would take me.”

Harry hums. He doesn’t take his hand off Louis’ neck. “The longer you stay out here the more likely it is one of them’s gonna tattle on you to Alberto,” he says. Doesn’t sound like he cares one way or the other.

“Considering that you came running after me, they already have,” Louis says. “They’re scared that they’re going to be held responsible if something happens to our combined net worth.”

“You’re not nearly as high as I thought you were,” Harry observes. His hand leaves Louis’ neck, but it’s only so he can sit down beside him instead, back up against the wall as well. Louis leans against him, just a little. “You wanna tell me what you’re freaking out about?”

No, Louis doesn’t. He wasn’t even freaking out, anyway. He just didn’t want to be sitting in a room full of his friends with an erection, is all.

“I really fucking missed you, you know?” Louis says, sinking all the way down onto the ground and resting his head against Harry’s shoulder. It’s better than telling him what Louis was actually thinking, and it usually distracts Harry from the real issue.

He likes hearing about how Louis misses him, and it definitely strokes his ego. Luckily, Louis is also good at taking him down a peg or two.

“I know,” Harry says, infuriatingly smug, but he takes Louis’ hand, lacing their fingers together, and that makes up for it a little. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you or not?”

It doesn’t always work to distract him. Louis licks his lips, considering his response. He’s not going to tell Harry the truth, obviously. There’s still a thousand things he could say that Harry would believe, some truer than others. Any of them are better than _I couldn’t stop thinking about sucking your cock_.

“It’s really lonely,” he settles on eventually. “I don’t know how you and Niall did it, being up onstage by yourself all the time. Everyone’s always looking at me.”

Before Harry can reply, more footsteps start coming their way. Louis keeps his head down and doesn’t pull his hand out of Harry’s. “Alright there, boys?” Alberto asks. He sounds tired, like he had been sleeping. Louis hadn’t thought it through when he’d gotten off the bus, that’s for sure.

“We’re good,” Harry answers for both of them. “Just need a few minutes.”

Louis closes his eyes again. His high is wearing off, but it doesn’t do anything to make him more self-conscious about holding Harry’s hand in a dimly lit truck stop at two a.m. He’s never felt self-conscious about that, high or not. Alberto’s seen it often enough over the years not to be surprised by it anymore.

“Ten minutes,” Alberto warns before he walks away. Louis can only muster up the slightest amount of peevishness at it. On his own, he’s a _liability_ and _prone to running off_ , but when Harry’s with him suddenly Alberto doesn’t need to worry about him?

“I’m trustworthy,” Louis mutters, turning his entire body further into Harry, pressing his face deeper into Harry’s chest.

Right away, Harry starts rubbing his back. “You did just run away from your own tour bus,” he points out.

Louis sighs, giving up on the pretense and climbing fully into Harry’s lap, slumping against him. “I hate it when you’re nice to me.”

He can feel Harry’s shrug as he goes from rubbing Louis’ back to hugging him. “You just hate it when I don’t let you pick a stupid fight with me.”

Harry’s always been too perceptive for his own good. Fighting with him is easier than what they’re doing right now, though, when the surge of Louis’ feelings threatens to overwhelm him. Sometimes it’s hard to feel good about the way Harry looks after him, the way he knows what Louis needs even when Louis doesn’t. There’s always been times it’s been harder than others, but lately it’s been terrible. Louis is pretty self-aware, and he knows he’s been struggling to let go enough to let Harry take care of him the way he needs him to.

“Why do you let me get away with so much?” Louis asks, voice barely anything more than a whisper. He can practically feel Harry swallow, hands going tense against Louis’ back.

This isn’t a conversation they should be having at two in the morning behind a dirty truck stop building mostly sober. Louis shouldn’t have asked. Fuck, he really shouldn’t have asked.

It feels like it takes forever for Harry to respond. “I don’t know what you want me to say to that,” he says, spreading his hands out wide on Louis’ back. “Either I say something glib and you let it go, or I tell you the truth and it changes everything.”

_You should probably think about whether you are_ , Stan’s voice echoes in his head. Louis breathes in unsteadily, balling his fingers up against Harry’s chest. Any second now, Alberto’s going to come back. He can’t think of anything to say, doesn’t know what he wants right now. Right at this very second, he means. It’s easy enough thinking long-term, what he wants from life in general, all that stuff, but right at this very second?

There are footsteps getting close to them. They’re going to have to move very soon.

“Don’t say anything,” Louis says. He blinks a few times, clears his throat, and gets up off Harry’s lap to start walking away.

Harry pulls him to a stop with a hand fisted in the back of Louis’ shirt, bending to put his mouth right up against Louis’ ear to say, “You know the way I love you.”

Louis stares out at the carpark, forgetting how to make his lungs work. Harry lets go and steps around him, heading to the bus without looking back.

They reach Detroit without talking about it again.

“D’you think that Liam will give me a piggyback ride to the stage when he gets here?” Louis asks. He’s lying face down on a couch in his dressing room, so his voice comes out kind of muffled. Oh well. He’s pretty sure that Harry understood him regardless.

“No,” Harry says. “He’s not going to want to haul your arse around when you’re perfectly capable of walking by yourself.”

Louis is pretty sure that’s a lie. Liam is like a dog – likes to be told what to do and know that people love him. He’s a very simple man. If Louis asked him for a piggyback ride, Liam would say yes.

The key there is the asking part. Normally Louis just tries to jump on him and ends up taking them both down in a pile of flailing limbs.

Louis sighs dramatically, rolling over onto his back. It takes more effort than it should, and he nearly considers giving up in the process, but he manages it. “I wonder if he’s bringing me anything.”

Harry’s eye roll is subtle with his gaze still directed down at his book. He’s been trying to read for the past twenty minutes, but Louis is bored and he needs to be entertained. If Harry _really_ wanted to read he’d have left a long time ago, like everyone else did when Louis wouldn’t keep quiet.

At this point, he’s mainly doing it to bother Harry. He has to entertain himself somehow, and bothering Harry is never anything less than delightful.

“He’s bringing himself, is that not enough for you?” Harry asks eventually, closing his book with a snap and finally looking over at Louis.

“I want presents,” Louis says immediately. “You didn’t bring me anything in L.A., and I feel like I’ve earned presents for putting on such an amazing show every night.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him, folding his hands together on his lap. He’s only wearing one ring today, just the _peace_ one that he almost never takes off. His other fingers look kind of bare without anything adorning them. “The only thing you would have wanted in L.A. was me, and I delivered that in spades, didn’t I?”

Well then. As cocky as it sounds, Harry isn’t wrong. Louis isn’t going to admit that to him, though.

“C’mon,” he says, clambering to his feet. “Let’s go get something to eat. I’m too excited to just sit around here doing nothing with you.”

“Were you this excited before I got to the venue in L.A.?” Harry wonders, climbing to his feet as well. He settles a hand in the small of Louis’ back, urging him towards the door with a slight hint of pressure.

Louis goes. He’s trying to decide between hot chocolate and tea. It’s kind of humid out for hot chocolate, but at the same time the venue is super air conditioned, so it’s not like it’ll end up making him too warm.

“No. You know I love Liam better than you anyway.”

Truthfully, in the hours leading up to Harry’s arrival the Microsoft Theater, Louis had been more anxious than excited. The fight he and Harry had been having had been dumb and entirely through text, and Louis hadn’t truly thought that Harry wouldn’t show up, but there was a small part of him that was worried about it.

Of course, all that anxiety had melted away the second he had actually seen Harry standing backstage waiting for him. It had been overwhelming at first, seeing him. It still kind of is, when Louis thinks about the fact that Harry is still here, over a month later.

“Wow,” Harry says dryly. If it was any other day, he probably would have stopped walking and made some big, dramatic scene, but today is Liam day and he knows that Louis is jittery and hyperactive about it. “It’s nice to know how you truly feel, baby.”

He’s being extraordinarily patient today. Louis slips his arm around Harry’s back and that’s how they finish the short walk to catering, holding onto each other.

When they get there, Louis takes a look around the room. Immediately, the espresso machine starts calling his name. He starts towards it, only to get yanked back by Harry’s hand fisted in the back of his shirt.

“Absolutely not,” Harry says firmly. “The last thing you need today is more caffeine. I might actually murder you.”

As if he’d ever have it in him to kill Louis. The notion is so laughable that Louis scoffs loudly, changing directions to turn the kettle on instead. “I’d like to see you try.”

There’s a selection of pastries still sitting in their cardboard boxes. Louis flicks them open, arms crossed over his chest as he peruses the selection, trying to decide what he’s in the mood for. Does he want something sweet or is he in the mood for something more savory?

“Harry,” Louis calls, still looking down at the pastries, “Should I have a croissant or a sausage roll?”

“Definitely croissant,” a familiar lilting Irish voice says from behind him. “They got them flaky ones in, right? Those are the best.”

Louis’ arms drop from his chest. He spins around on his heel. “No fucking way,” he breathes. To his embarrassment, he can feel his eyes welling up with tears that he has to blink away fast, before they can slip out.

Niall laughs, crossing the room to wrap Louis up in a hug that nearly lifts him off his feet with the force of it. Louis clutches at him so hard he thinks he hears Niall’s ribs creaking in protest, but it doesn’t matter. 

“Do I get any of that love for bringing him with me?” Liam asks. Louis’ laugh is watery. He holds an arm out, unwilling to let go of Niall in the process, and feels Liam slip into the hug beside him, dropping a kiss on the top of Louis’ head. It’s an action that would normally get him a slap in the balls, but Louis is too emotional for that. His knees actually feel a little weak from it.

He has to turn his head to look at Harry, leaning against the doorframe, smiling at them. Louis’ cheek is smashed against Niall’s shoulder and he doesn’t care. “Did you know about this?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder, but the smirk on his face says that he did, the deepness of his dimple giving him away. Harry brought him _Niall_. Louis can forgive him for not bringing him anything in L.A.

“C’mere,” he says, beckoning at Harry with two fingers, the most he’s willing to let go of his boys. Harry obeys, slotting himself into the hug at Louis’ back. He’s warm and familiar, and Louis lets his eyes close, caught up in a tight circle of some of the people he loves most in the world.

It kind of feels like coming home again.

Family dinner starts about half an hour later. It’s not a Sunday, but it’s Sunday dinner. Louis made sure that it’d be something special when Liam confirmed that he was coming, and it’s even better with Niall here.

The room is full and bustling, jammed with Louis’ friends, the band, the crew. Normally Louis sits himself down at a random table and chats with whoever happens to be sitting there, but tonight he makes sure there’s a circular table specifically for the four of them. It’s loud, plates full of steaming food in front of them, and Louis doesn’t think he could be happier.

Harry’s sitting on his left. Niall’s to his right, with Liam in between them. Louis has had his arm looped through Niall’s ever since they sat down, and he feels absolutely no shame about it. These boys are as much his family as his blood relatives, and Louis has missed the fuck out of them.

Liam is in the middle of telling some melodramatic story about one of his sisters. He’d told it to Louis the other day on the phone, and it’s definitely been edited and amped up since then. Louis has no qualms about interrupting it. 

“I missed you lads so much,” he says loudly, reaching for Harry’s hand under the table. “I can’t believe neither of you told me that Niall was coming.”

He squeezes Harry’s hand, feels Harry squeeze back. It’s so good, being in this room with them. Louis lays his head against Niall’s shoulder, breathing him in.

Niall pats his cheek affectionately. “We wanted to surprise you,” he says. “I had a few days with nothing on, so I flew in specifically for you.”

If he keeps going on like that Louis might have to marry him. He won’t have any other choice.

“And I love that you did, Neil,” Louis tells him seriously. “To celebrate, I’ll even let you tell me three of your golf stories.”

“I was talking, you know,” Liam points out. “Come out to your show to support you and you don’t even show me the courtesy of not interrupting me. Terrible. You’re terrible.”

He’s right. Louis releases Niall from his hold and gets up, circling the table so he can plop himself down in Liam’s lap and wrap his arms around his neck in a very tight hug. “Aw, Payno, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing a messy kiss to Liam’s cheek. It’s slobbery, full of spit, and it makes Liam shriek with laughter and try to push him off. Determinedly, Louis hangs on, pressing kisses all over Liam’s face until he gives up struggling and just accepts them.

“Can’t you do anything about this?” Liam asks plaintively, slumping back in his chair and nearly sending them both toppling over. It takes Louis a second to realize that he’s talking to Harry.

Harry shrugs, taking a long sip of his water before he responds. “Mate, I haven’t ever been able to do anything about him.”

That’s not true and everyone at this table knows it. Pleased with Harry’s tacit support of his antics, Louis adjusts himself, wiggling around until he’s sat more securely on Liam’s lap, reaching for his knife and fork and cutting himself a mouthful of roast beef. 

“Really?” Liam asks, aiming for exasperated and falling well short. “You have your own food, you know. _And_ your own chair.”

“But Liam,” Louis says, dragging out his name so it sounds more like _Leeyum_ , “Don’t you want to share with me?”

“Every person needs friends to be creative,” Harry says. It’s a little weird, but not really any weirder than any of the other things that come out of his mouth, so everyone mostly ignores him while Louis concentrates on trying to shove a forkful of peas into Liam’s mouth.

Liam pushes his hand away, sending peas flying everywhere. Louis cackles, not even trying to keep his volume down, while Niall says, “Jesus, that’s a mess,” also laughing.

“It’s not easy being green,” Harry laments sadly. Louis pauses in the middle of trying to gather up a spoonful of gravy, looking across the table at him. “Oh well. You should never take yourself too seriously.”

“Is that – ” Louis says, squinting at him.

“Just because you haven’t found your talent yet doesn’t mean you don’t have one,” Harry continues.

Louis flings the spoonful of gravy in his direction instead. “Oh my god,” he groans loudly. 

The gravy splatters against the arm Harry brings up to deflect it, but even that doesn’t give them much reprieve before he’s carrying on with, “If life were easy, it wouldn’t be difficult.”

He stares at them for a solid ten seconds before making a big, exaggerated frog face, bulging his eyes out and doing that weird smile. Instantly, Niall cracks up, wheezing out something that Louis honestly can’t understand, and Liam is right after him, chest shaking against Louis’ shoulder with laughter. Louis tries, he really does, but he can’t hold his own laughter back, flopping over onto an empty part of the table and burying his face in his arms. He starts sliding off Liam’s lap without meaning to, and then he just goes with it, sliding down until he’s curled up under the table, still laughing.

It’s not even that funny. Not really. It’s just – Harry had to spend actual time looking up quotes, deciding on which ones to say and then actually saying them. He put way too much time into this for Louis not to give him the reaction he deserves.

Harry’s fingers touch his face. Louis pulls his arms away, looks at Harry crouched down on the floor. “Frankly, Miss Piggy, I don’t give a hoot,” Harry whispers, just loud enough to be heard by the other boys, and it sets them all off again.

Needless to say, none of them end up eating that much.

Louis goes to get ready for the show, leaving the three of them in his dressing room. When he comes back, Harry and Liam are sitting on a couch together, laughing about something. Niall is nowhere to be seen. Harry’s leaning heavily against Liam’s side, and even from the doorway it’s obvious they’re making fun of each other.

It’s possible Louis gets a little teary-eyed again. He blinks it away before anyone can see, and that’s just as good as it never having happened in the first place. It’s just – even now, Harry is probably the most recognizable of the five of them, and with that comes its own unique set of challenges. He’s as careful as he can be, Louis knows, but he’s gotten burned a lot over the years by people who want to use him for one thing or another. He’s got tons of friends all over the world, and he’s got Mitch when he goes on tour, but there’s always something very soothing about watching him with Liam and Niall. Like he can let everything else melt away and be completely himself, no guards up or limits in place.

Louis clears his throat, gesturing vaguely around the room. “Did we lose Niall again?”

“Think he went to see if he could filch one of your guitars,” Liam says, looking up at him. “By now he’s probably leading a sing-along somewhere.”

“He has been gone for awhile,” Harry says, frowning a little. “I should probably go make sure he hasn’t wandered out the wrong door and gotten caught by fans.”

He pushes himself up, squeezing Louis’ elbow gently as he passes. Louis goes to sit down in the spot he vacated, resting against Liam’s side more or less the same way Harry had been. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Liam echoes. “Alright?”

“’m good,” Louis assures him, and he is. He’s happy.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Liam puts an arm around Louis’ shoulders, hugging him lightly. “You’re really alright, though?”

“I’m really alright, Li,” Louis answers, pinching at Liam’s kneecap. It probably doesn’t even hurt through the denim of his jeans, so Liam’s hiss and attempt to jerk away is completely uncalled for.

“Okay,” Liam says, pinning Louis’ hand down before he can do it again, “I’m just worried about you. Harry’s been here for five weeks, right?”

Louis’ spine stiffens. He doesn’t pull out of Liam’s hold, but only because it’s been so long since he last saw him and he’s trying to make every moment count. “He has. And it’s _fine_ , Liam.”

“Okay,” Liam repeats easily. “He’s back to calling you _baby_ again.”

He says it casually, like he doesn’t mean anything by it, except he does, and Louis knows exactly what it is. And the worst part is that Louis hadn’t even noticed Harry saying it. “Is he?” he asks, stalling. Even if he didn’t notice it today it’s not like he thinks Liam is lying – Harry calls him that more often than he uses Louis’ actual name. Especially lately.

“He is,” Liam confirms. “At least five times.”

Louis swallows, fingers going lax against Liam’s knee. Four years ago, during the last few months of the band, when he and Harry had been avoiding each other as much as possible because it hurt all the damn time, Harry had taken to addressing Louis only by his name, and only when he absolutely had to. It had been crushing at the time, no matter how Louis tried to play it off or pretend like he didn’t notice it was happening. He doesn’t even know that he remembers for sure the first time it had slipped out of Harry’s mouth, _baby_ , only that it had been happening for so long that of course everyone noticed when it stopped.

Especially Liam and Niall. Harry might have tried not to let it slip so much around anyone else, but Liam and Niall are family, and he’s never hidden himself from them.

“We’re good,” Louis says eventually. It’s even more or less the truth. “I miss him, you know? When we’re not together. I miss him so much it hurts.”

“I know,” Liam says, squeezing Louis’ shoulder. “I just remember how hard it got for you guys back then, and I don’t want to see the two of you going through that again.”

What are their other options? Either they’re apart and it hurts, or they’re together and it hurts. It’s always been a struggle to figure out which hurts less.

“Yeah,” Louis says, clearing his throat. There’s not really much more he can say about it. Liam isn’t off base about any of it.

“Have you thought about trying?” Liam asks. “It has been four years. Maybe now is the right time?”

There’s never going to be a perfect time. No matter how long they wait, the only way they can be together without the entire world getting involved in their relationship is if they both drop off the face of the planet. Spend the rest of their lives holed up in some remote cabin together, just the two of them with the years stretching out in front of them. As nice as that sounds as a vacation, it’s not what Louis wants for the rest of his life. Them being together is a decision that affects so many more people than just the two of them, and it’s not something either of them has ever taken lightly.

Maybe Liam’s right, though. It’s not the first time Louis has thought that maybe they’ve waited long enough for their chance. He’s been thinking it a lot lately. He just hasn’t worked up the courage to do anything about it. Making a move while he’s been drinking or high on adrenaline has never counted. It doesn’t matter how many times something has _almost_ happened – the last ten years has been a non-stop rollercoaster of something _almost_ happening between him and Harry.

“Maybe,” Louis says quietly. The door opens, and Harry and Niall come tumbling in, bringing noise and chaos with them, and that’s the end of the conversation.

Louis isn’t exactly cut up about it.

He plays the best show of the entire tour that night, knowing that all of his boys are there to support him. Afterwards, they sit up in a hotel room together for hours, talking shit and catching up on each other’s lives, until they physically can’t keep their eyes open anymore.

As usual, Harry’s the first to pass out, splayed out across a bed. He’s got a pillow tucked up to his chest, arms curled around it, and Louis tries very hard to ignore that the pillow would normally be him. Liam goes next, nodding off in a chair for a few minutes before he shuffles over to the other bed, getting underneath the covers properly. That leaves just Louis and Niall, looking at each other over a few empty bottles of wine and snacks spread across a table.

“Bedtime, I think,” Louis says, getting up so he can start clearing off the table. Normally he’d leave it for the morning, and he’d help Harry clean it up despite the fuss he might kick up about it, but he knows how Niall is, and he’s not going to do anything to make him uncomfortable and want to get a room of his own.

Niall helps, and they work in silence for a couple of minutes. On the beds, neither Harry nor Liam stir, passed out super quickly.

“So where has Harry been sleeping for the past few weeks?” Niall asks. His voice is carefully casual, like he’s putting a lot of effort into not sounding like he’s accusing Louis of something.

He also sounds like he already knows the answer to his own question.

Louis sighs, placing the last bottle into the overflowing recycling bin carefully, trying not to tip it over. There’s no point in lying about something they both already know the answer to. “With me.”

With him, despite the spare bunk on the bus that’s only holding all of Louis’ shit. With him, despite the fact that Harry has more than enough money to get a room of his own every night. With him, despite the fact that Louis could easily take one of the rooms with two beds when they do stay in a hotel.

Niall hums non-judgmentally. Louis still feels very judged. “Do you have something you want to say?”

It seems like everyone’s had an opinion about his relationship with Harry lately. What’s one more?

“Tommo,” Niall says seriously, looking over at him, “Whatever the two of you decide, I’m behind you a hundred percent.”

Louis’ shoulders deflate, just a little. He hadn’t been expecting a fight, not really, but still. “Thanks, mate.”

“I mean, you already know what I think anyway,” Niall continues, and makes a crude gesture with his fist. “If you were getting it from him you’d probably be a lot more mellow.”

Louis rolls his eyes and throws an empty bag of crisps Niall’s way. It misses, but it gets his point across, he thinks.

Niall and Liam leave mid-afternoon the next day. Harry goes in the car with them to see them off, and Louis isn’t bitter about that at all. Stupid interviews getting in the way of getting to have a proper airport sendoff. 

By the time Harry gets back to the hotel, Louis’ interview is finished and he’s lying face down on the bed, morose. Few things feel as bad as it does when people he really loves leave his tour to go back home.

“Hey,” Harry says, sitting on the edge of the bed where there’s still a bit of space. His hand brushes lightly over Louis’ back.

Louis cracks an eye open, turning his head just enough that he can glare in Harry’s direction. “What.” 

“Niall said to tell you that you’re the love of his life and that he’s sorry he had to leave you this way,” Harry recites. “Liam just said something like _tell Tommo not to be a melodramatic wanker_.”

Louis sighs, a tiny bit appeased. He closes his eyes and smushes his face back into the pillow. “I want to pay them to stay on tour with me all the time.”

“I know,” Harry says, rubbing at Louis’ back again. “There’s a shop that sells vintage sportswear a few miles from here. Let me take you and buy you something pretty.”

“You always know just what to say to turn me on,” Louis says, turning his head back a little. 

Catches a hint of Harry’s answering smile before he’s getting up, patting Louis on the arse as he goes. “I know. Now get up before I change my mind.”

They do the vintage shop, and then a couple more Harry apparently looked up online, before their final stop at a Gucci store. There’s no fanfare about their arrival. None of the employees even look a little flustered. Louis narrows his eyes at Harry’s retreating back as he goes to speak to one of said employees, talking in a low voice so Louis won’t overhear him.

“I should have known that this little shopping trip would have ended up being about you,” Louis says loudly, dropping his bags on the floor where he’s standing.

Harry waves a hand at him without looking. “Feel free to ignore him,” he says, smiling pleasantly at the employee he’s talking to. The manager, by the looks of it. “He’s just being stroppy because his blood sugar is low. Some tea and a few biscuits will fix him right up.”

Immediately, an employee bustles off, presumably to fetch the tea and biscuits. Another one swoops in to take Louis’ bags, disappearing towards the back with them. Louis raises his eyebrows at Harry’s back. Harry doesn’t usually throw his weight around like this, at least not for himself, so this must be another thing that’s for Louis’ benefit. Even if Louis doesn’t see how quite yet.

They’re led to a private fitting room where Louis’ bags are waiting, along with a steaming pot of tea and a platter of assorted biscuits. Louis rolls his eyes, throwing himself down into a plush chair and helping himself to a chocolate digestive.

“How many NDAs did you make them sign to get all of this arranged?” Louis asks through a mouthful of crumbs.

“ _So_ many,” Harry says, sitting himself down in the other chair and patting his lap. “So you can, y’know. If you want.”

Because it’ll be safe, he means. Because if any of these employees breathe a word about Louis being here they’ll be up to their eyeballs in lawsuits. It’s not exactly a thought Louis relishes, but it’s comforting nonetheless. Makes him feel like he actually has a choice.

Louis rolls his eyes again, abandoning his own chair to slide into Harry’s lap. He brings his biscuit along with him, sending crumbs sprinkling down onto Harry’s ridiculously expensive jeans, and that pleases him more than sitting in Harry’s lap does.

Not really. But he’s still happy about it.

“Why are we here?” Louis asks, looping an arm around Harry’s shoulders and adjusting his position so he’s sitting more comfortably.

“Sarah said you have a charity event coming up and that you need a new suit for it,” Harry says, grabbing a biscuit for himself. “Also I was supposed to stop into a store back in Vegas and I didn’t, so this is two for the price of one.”

Leaning over to pour them cups of tea is a bit precarious. Louis manages. “People are going to go nuts if I show up to an event in the same brand you’re associated with.”

Harry takes his cup, taking a long, slow sip of the tea before he answers. “Are you opposed to that?”

“Nah,” Louis says, slumping back against Harry’s chest with his own cup cradled close. “I’m just saying, don’t complain to me when your twitter mentions are filled with nothing but.”

“You think I’m gonna complain about getting reminded about you all the time?” Harry asks, squeezing Louis around the waist. “Baby, I want nothing else.”

Louis wasn’t upset about it. The answers still mollifies him. Or maybe it’s the tea and the biscuits and Harry was actually right about his blood sugar being low. It’s impossible to tell.

There’s a knock at the door. A couple of employees enter after Harry calls out to, pulling a rack of clothes between them. Louis raises an eyebrow, turning to look at Harry’s face. “This looks like a lot more than just suits.”

“You know I’ve always wanted to dress you up like a doll,” Harry says, deadpan, and snickers while Louis drives an elbow into his gut.

“Excuse him,” Louis says, getting off Harry’s lap and smiling winningly at the two employees. Just because Harry’s more overtly charming doesn’t mean that Louis can’t also win people over. “I didn’t catch your names earlier, loves, I’m Louis.”

He shakes their hands while they introduce themselves – Marcia and Rochelle. He commits their names to memory and makes idle chitchat while they show them the clothes before leaving them to pick out some things to try on.

The rack is split right down the middle with options for both of them. Louis slides his fingers across various materials, silks and cottons and something that feels alarmingly close to spandex. Harry’s side is brighter, has more of an assortment of colours and patterns. He must have had some input into what they selected for Louis’ side, though, because all of it looks like stuff Louis would wear, even still sitting on the hanger.

“You’re going to make them think that we’re together,” Louis says quietly, still facing the clothes. All of this – them arriving together, the shared dressing room, this joint rack of clothes – paints a certain picture. One they’re normally a bit more careful about not painting around people they don’t know.

Harry gets up as well, standing a foot or so behind Louis, also reaching out to touch the clothes. “People have already been thinking that for the past ten years,” he says, even quieter. “What’s two more?”

What’s two more indeed. Nothing and everything, maybe, all at once. Harry’s want has been a lot louder over the last few weeks, and Louis has done nothing to discourage it. He knows that he’s done the opposite of that, in fact. And it’s been easy, hasn’t it? Having him here, like this? A lot easier than it used to be.

“If you brought me here because you think you’re going to get me to do a striptease for you, you’re sorely mistaken,” Louis informs him, turning around to face him. He’ll figure it out later, when Harry isn’t standing so close to him, overwhelming him with his proximity. Louis has never been able to think straight when he’s this close.

“Who says you’re going to be the one doing the stripping?” Harry asks with a ridiculous wiggle of his hips. “I’ve got moves, baby.”

God, he’s so stupidly endearing. Louis has to physically push him away, turning back around to face the clothes. There’s a dark grey suit that’s calling to him. He hasn’t even tried it on yet and he thinks it might be the one.

“Go sit down,” he orders Harry, and strips his shirt off over his head. He can hear Harry stumbling towards the chair, and he’s pretty sure that the only reason he’s going is because Louis has actually started taking his clothes off.

He allows himself a small, private smile, still facing the rack. Harry might be able to pull out these big, grand acts, but he still gets satisfyingly overwhelmed the second Louis starts taking his clothes off. It’s a power Louis tries to use sparingly, no matter how much he wants to do it all the time, just to see the look on Harry’s face, the way his words dry up in his mouth.

The grey suit _is_ quite nice. Louis turns, examining himself in the full length mirror on the opposite wall. “What do you think?”

He catches a glimpse of Harry coughing into his fist, face a little twisted as he takes Louis in. The trousers are snug across his arse, enough that he can feel the stretch of the material without even having to look, and he knows that’s what Harry is going to comment on.

“Your bum looks fantastic,” Harry says, and even though Louis knew it was coming, it still makes him smile.

“You say that about everything I wear,” Louis says, twisting so he can see himself from a different angle. “Do you think the colour is okay?”

“I think you look incredible,” Harry says. “The sight of you in that suit at the event would make me want to donate all of my money.”

So fucking charming. Louis can’t decide whether he wants to slap him or kiss him.

It’s kiss. It’s always kiss.

“Can you be serious for two seconds?” Louis demands, spreading his arms out and turning in a slow circle so Harry can get the full effect of the suit. “We can’t all pull off ridiculously bright floral suits, you know. Some of us need to be a little bit more serene in the clothing department.”

“You could pull off anything,” Harry says, loyal to a fault. “But that one is – ” he pauses for a second, and Louis watches him cough into his fist in the mirror, “nice.”

If he wasn’t looking at Harry, Louis wouldn’t be able to tell how much more he means than just _nice_. It’s written all over his face, and the only reason he isn’t saying it is because Louis told him to stop talking about his arse. The knowledge makes Louis flush all the way down to his chest, deep and pleased. 

“Okay, so this one is good, I think,” Louis says, starting to take off the suit piece by piece.

“Try on the rest,” Harry says abruptly. His voice is deeper than normal, turned on, and it figures that watching Louis try on clothes would be one of his things.

Louis should say no and encourage Harry to try on his section instead. Letting Harry watch him get dressed when he can hear how much Harry likes it is a bad idea. It’ll only encourage him, and Louis has been conflicted enough about their relationship lately. The last thing he needs to be doing is this.

He does it anyway. He has to pretend that his increasingly ragged breathing is due to the physical exertion of trying on clothes, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t sell it. It doesn’t matter, though – Harry’s breathing is also increasingly ragged, and he has no excuse for it, sitting motionless in a chair like he is.

Harry doesn’t get up to touch him, to smooth the clothes down, to adjust them, anything. With every piece Louis tries on, he wants that more and more. For Harry to touch him, hands all over Louis’ body, big and strong and capable. He’d be slow and deliberate as he strips Louis out of this suit – black, this one – as intentional as he does everything else.

Louis is half hard. If he keeps thinking like this, he’s not going to be able to hide it anymore, and the reality is that they’re in a shop in New York City, not at home, not on the bus, not even in a hotel where maybe something like that would be acceptable. He clears his throat, making fast work of changing back into his own clothes before collapsing back into his chair.

Not back into Harry’s lap. As much as he wants to, that’s the last thing he needs to be doing right now.

“Your turn,” Louis says belatedly, drawing his feet up onto the chair with him. His tea has long since gone cold, but he drinks it anyway, swallowing down big gulps of it to soothe his suddenly aching throat.

Harry stands up, stretching languidly before perusing the rack, flicking through clothes. He’s slow as he picks out something to try on, and even slower as he actually starts putting it on.

So it turns out that Louis shouldn’t have been so impressed with his own ability to make Harry glitch by taking off his clothes. Sitting here, watching the slow, methodical way Harry unbuttons his shirt, baring inch after inch of his skin, is like torture.

Louis swallows hard. He’s practically sitting on his hands to keep himself from getting up and going over there, ripping Harry’s shirt open the rest of the way. “You’re so pale,” he says, breathless and accusing.

Harry glances over at him, fond and amused, still unbuttoning his shirt agonizingly slowly. “I’m British,” he points out. “We’re generally pretty pale people. It’s weirder that you’re so tan all the time.”

He’s finally finished undoing the buttons, shirt hanging open, exposing his chest, his tattoos. Louis swallows even harder and desperately reminds himself that it doesn’t make sense to be turned on by this. He’s seen Harry more naked than this literally thousands of times. He’s seen Harry take off his clothes countless times, and he’s not doing it any differently now. He’s just slow, that’s all. It’s not intentional.

Reminding himself of all that doesn’t seem to be helping any.

“You just need to go out into the sun every once in a while,” Louis forces himself to say, dropping his gaze down to where his hands are twisted together in his lap. “It’d do you some good.”

“Would it now,” Harry drawls, shucking his jeans next, leaving him standing there in just his boxers. No matter how hard Louis tries, he can’t manage to keep his eyes down, to keep himself from looking. Can’t help watching as Harry picks out a deep green suit to try on, pulling the trousers up his legs.

“Just – a little bit of sun,” Louis says faintly. “You know, sitting by the pool or something. Not enough to burn.”

Harry shrugs on the suit jacket next, holding it closed with one hand and turning to eye himself critically in the mirror. He’s not wearing a shirt underneath it, so much of his skin still exposed, and Louis really wants to have sex with him.

“You know you’re being weird, right?” Harry asks conversationally, still examining himself in the mirror.

Louis sighs heavily, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I know.”

“Okay,” Harry says slowly, eyebrows furrowing, and there’s only so much of this Louis can take.

“I’m gonna go use the loo,” he says abruptly. “You should get that one, it looks really good on you.”

He flees before Harry has a chance to say anything. He takes a couple of wrong turns, but he finds the loo eventually. Inside, he splashes some cold water on his face, willing himself to get it together. Then, when that doesn’t work, he drops his face into his hands, uncaring of the fact that it’s still wet, drops of water sliding across his fingertips.

Behind him, the door snicks open again. Louis doesn’t move from his position. He already knows it’s Harry, even before he feels Harry’s hands slide onto his hips, holding him gently.

“Everyone’s going to think we’re having sex in here,” Louis says to the marble countertop.

“Who cares,” Harry says immediately. “I came to make sure you’re okay.”

His fingers slide under the hem of Louis’ shirt, caressing his bare skin. “Are you okay?” he adds.

“You make me feel so many things,” Louis says quietly, dropping his head down to rest against the cool countertop. The change in position pushes his arse against Harry’s groin, and he didn’t even mean for that to happen. It’s like he doesn’t have any control over his body right now.

Harry’s hands pause. “Like what?”

Louis pushes back into Harry’s body harder. It’s intentional, this time, and makes him overtly aware of the fact that he’s literally bent over a sink right now. It’d be so easy to let Harry peel his trackies down and fuck him, make Louis gasp and shake and take it.

Clearly, Harry’s thinking the same thing, cock pressing against Louis’ arse, well on its way to getting hard.

“Loved,” Louis says, because at the end of the day that’s really what it boils down to. “It hurts how much you love me, sometimes.”

Harry’s hands slide up Louis’ back, around to flatten out against his chest. He bends down, putting his chest flush against Louis’ back, mouth hot and insistent against the nape of Louis’ neck. He presses a kiss there, so sweet and gentle Louis’ knees tremble.

Louis wants to want to tell him not to do that. It’s only making things worse, more complicated, and god knows things between them are already complicated enough. Harry’s big and hot against his back, all over him, and that line they’ve always kept between them seems like it’s getting thinner every day.

“I do,” Harry murmurs, stopping just short of actually saying the words out loud. It’d be easier if they were actually having sex right now – Louis thinks he could take Harry’s cock better than he can take the messy tangle of feelings burning a hole through his chest.

He has to turn around before he actually lets Harry do it, struggling a bit in Harry’s hold before he manages to twist around and loop his arms around Harry’s neck, squeezing. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, threatening to pound its way right out of his body.

“Do you know what you want?” Louis asks, face buried in Harry’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to see Harry’s face.

Harry’s answer is immediate. “Yes.”

There’s a bit of a pause before he adds, “Do you?”

Louis has known what he wants since he was eighteen years old. He’s just never let himself have it before. Not really, not the way he wants. He’s taken bits and pieces of Harry, always trying to limit himself, but he’s never taken as much as he wants. Nowhere near as much as he wants.

“Yeah,” Louis says softly, and lets himself have another few seconds of the hug before he pulls away from it, forcing a bright smile onto his face. “Let’s go buy some clothes.”

Harry lets him walk away, and Louis doesn’t let himself look back.

They don’t talk about it again for the rest of the day. They never do.

“It’s been a while,” Luke says, fingers circled around Louis’ right wrist, his other hand settled on Louis’ side, a few inches below his armpit.

For once, the room is empty of other people. They’re standing in the middle of it, toe to toe, and Louis has never been more appreciative of his height than when he’s looking up at a guy who’s fucked him. He’s perfectly average height for a man, and he’ll insist on that until his dying day, but he’s always liked a dude who’s taller than him.

“A while since what?” Louis asks, tipping his head up so he’s looking Luke in the eyes. “Since you’ve accosted me in my own dressing room?”

Luke rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little. He shakes Louis’ wrist a little, emphasizing his grip. “No, since the first moon landing,” he says dryly.

No one’s ever accused Louis of not having a type, and there’s a reason Luke fits it so well. Louis rolls his eyes back, twisting his wrist free but taking a step closer regardless. “What do you know about space exploration?” he demands. The slow, dirty grin that spreads across Luke’s face says something his mouth is about to follow through on, Louis is pretty sure.

“A while,” Luke repeats instead. “I downloaded a dating app. I just thought you should know.”

Oh. That makes sense. It’s actually very considerate, that Luke is letting him know ahead of time. They don’t have any non-platonic feelings for each other, but getting surprised by Luke hooking up with some guy isn’t high on the list of things Louis wants the possibility of walking in on.

“Good,” Louis says, squeezing Luke’s bicep, wiggling his eyebrows at him. “You need – ”

_To get laid_ , is how he’s planning on finishing that sentence. It never makes its way out of his mouth.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Harry’s voice is sharp and loud. 

Louis stumbles a few steps back, heart startled into overdrive in his chest, turning to look. He hadn’t heard Harry come in, and he has no idea what kind of expression is written all over his own face. Panic, probably.

“Harry,” he says a little dumbly. Harry’s stopped a few steps into the room, plastic bag dangling at his side from two fingers, a Starbucks cup in the other.

“This is – ” Harry stops himself, shaking his head and looking up at the ceiling for a second. “Wow. Just – fucking. Wow. Amazing.” He shakes his head again and turns on his heel, heading back to the door.

Louis bristles, taking a few more steps away from Luke and pitching his voice loud enough to be heard without any problems. “Don’t do that,” he says, following Harry towards the door before he can make his way out of it. “Don’t act like I’ve just betrayed your trust or something, Harry, fuck.”

Immediately, Harry spins back around, tossing the bag on the floor hard enough that the contents go flying across the tile, gesturing wide with the other. Tea sloshes over the rim of the cup, making even more of a mess. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he says, advancing towards Louis. 

All the times Louis thought about what might happen if Harry found out, he pictured hurt on Harry’s face. He’d be upset, Louis thought. He’s fucking _furious_ , though, not upset. It’s written all over his face, easy to read.

“You’re seriously telling me how to react right now?” Harry demands, still coming towards Louis. “I find out you’ve been fucking your friend for who the fuck knows how long and you’re going to try to tell me that I’m overreacting?”

“Whoa, mate,” Luke interrupts, cutting in between them, holding his hands up in the air. “Maybe you should take a walk, cool off a bit, yeah?”

Jesus _Christ_. Of all the things – Louis ducks underneath Luke’s arm and gets back in the middle, taking three big steps and planting both of his hands firmly against Harry’s chest, trying to push him backwards. “Leave,” Louis says sharply, looking over his shoulder at Luke. 

“Cool off?” Harry’s all but shouting, still pushing forward. Louis plants his feet and shoves back, trying to gain an inch or two of ground. Harry’s not budging, switching to swearing under his breath, and Luke is coming closer like he thinks Harry’s going to hit Louis instead of him, and Louis just – 

He makes a grab for the cup Harry’s still holding, pops the lid off with his thumb and tosses what’s left of the tea at Harry’s chest.

“ _Go_ ,” he says. Harry’s gone completely, murderously silent and still in front of him, tea soaked and dripping. “He’s not going to hurt me, but I guarantee he’s going to try to punch you in the face if you stay here any longer. Go.”

Luke drags his feet, but he goes. Louis doesn’t turn to watch him leave, gripping Harry’s shirt with both hands in case he changes his mind and decides to go for it anyway.

Harry’s chest is heaving against Louis’ hands. It’s almost worse now that they’re alone. Louis takes a breath and looks up to meet Harry’s eyes, except Harry’s not looking at him. He’s looking over Louis’ shoulder at the door, like he expects Luke to come back in any second.

Acid roils in Louis’ stomach. Very carefully, he says, “You’ve always known that I have sex with other people.” 

“You’re really going to pretend that’s why I’m mad?” Harry demands, looking down at him incredulously. 

Louis crosses his arm over his chest and tips his chin up. “I have no idea why you’re mad, Harry. Seems like you’re throwing a temper tantrum over nothing to me.”

“Nothing,” Harry repeats, scoffing. He steps back, as though he can’t bear to be so close to Louis anymore. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that it only happened once.”

“You’re not entitled to know anything about my sex life,” Louis says sharply. No matter how evenly he tries to breathe, he can’t get his heart to stop pounding.

“Jesus,” Harry mutters. He turns around to leave again. Louis grabs his arm, fingers slipping against Harry’s bare skin.

“You need to calm the fuck down,” he hisses. “I’m not going to have you going around punching people because you’re pissed off at me.”

Abruptly, Harry turns around, yanking Louis towards him so quick Louis loses his footing and stumbles into it, crashing against Harry’s body. He doesn’t have time to get his balance back before Harry’s grabbing his arse with both hands, squeezing tight. Louis gasps, high in his throat, body making the decision to rock up onto his toes without waiting for his brain to agree.

“I know you fuck other people,” Harry agrees. He hasn’t stopped squeezing Louis’ arse, tight enough that it aches, just a little. “I just didn’t realize you were fucking all of your friends except me.”

As abruptly as he’d done it in the first place, he lets go, striding out of the room, nearly knocking Sarah over in the process.

“You’re on in five,” she says. There’s a furrow in her eyebrows as she looks at him, clearly not missing the tension she’s walked in on.

“Thanks,” Louis says. He has no choice other than to head towards the stage, fuming as he goes. Harry doesn’t get to be angry at him for having a sex drive, not when he’s had plenty of sex of his own over the past ten years. Ten years is too fucking long to go without getting laid.

Before he goes on stage, Louis makes a slight detour to find Alberto, pulling him into a quiet corner. “I need you to keep Harry away from Luke,” he says, trying to shove his in-ears into the right position with shaking fingers. With less than two minutes before the curtain drops, he doesn’t have time for this.

He can’t let Harry break Luke’s nose either, though.

Alberto frowns at him. “Harry’s a good kid,” he says, reading between the lines enough to know that something has finally caught up with Louis.

Louis huffs, jamming the left one in and going to work on the right. His fingers keep slipping every time he gets a grip on it. “Just do it for me,” he says. He doesn’t have time to explain the why to Alberto, not that he would if he did.

“Okay,” Alberto agrees, but he’s still frowning. Louis has to run to make it to the stage on time, out of breath and pink as he launches into Just Hold On.

Louis has been playing the same setlist for the last three months. It makes it a little easier to zone out a little, singing mostly from memory rather than an emotional connection. It doesn’t make for a bad performance, necessarily, but he’s sure the audience has noticed.

He just can’t stop thinking about it. It’s not how he wanted Harry to find out. Not that he ever really wanted Harry to find out. He probably could have gone the rest of his life without Harry ever finding out about Luke.

Harry’s words keep ringing through his head. _Fucking all your friends except me_. It’s not like Louis didn’t know about Harry’s jealous streak. He sees the way Harry’s jaw tightens whenever the topic of Louis being with someone else comes up, the way he looks away. He doesn’t like thinking about Louis being with someone else, even if he knows it happens. He’s jealous, and okay, whatever, Louis gets that. He doesn’t have any claim to Louis, not really, but jealousy isn’t entirely rational.

_All your friends_ , though. All of them. Louis feels a little slut-shamed, and it’s not a feeling he likes. Even if he was out there fucking all of his friends, it wouldn’t be any of Harry’s business, and he wouldn’t have any right to judge Louis for it.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I seem a little distracted tonight,” Louis says into the mic. The lights are always bright, making it hard to see much of the audience, something he appreciates right now. “I just had a row with one of my mates before I came on stage. It was a pretty big one, too. Thinks he’s got rights he doesn’t.”

The audience screams back at him, a wave of encouraging noise he can never decipher. “Always been a bit of a jealous dickhead, this mate of mine, but he took it to an extreme tonight, almost got into a physical altercation with another one of my mates.” 

He puts a heavy emphasis on _physical altercation_. Irritation surges up in him the longer he thinks about it. Fuck Harry for putting him in that situation. Louis doesn’t have time to be breaking up fights between his friends.

“The shittiest part of it is that I always thought that eventually we’d find our way, y’know?” Louis continues. He can barely hear the noise of the crowd anymore, too focused on the tangled knot of emotions in his chest. “Always felt inevitable, me and him, but who the fuck knows what’s happening anymore.”

Louis stops to take in a ragged breath. Vaguely, he’s aware of the cacophony of noise, at least twice as loud as it had been before. _Fuck_ Harry. 

“Fuck you, Harry,” he says softly, eyes closed, and launches into No Control.

He can barely hear himself over the screaming of the crowd.

The rest of the show passes in kind of a blur. The anger simmers away in his chest, threatening to boil over, and he has no idea whether it makes for a good performance or not, ignoring everything other than the words coming out of his mouth. He’s sweaty when he steps off stage, not knowing what he’s going to find.

For all he knows, Harry’s gone. He doesn’t usually take off when Louis pisses him off, but this time might be different.

This time feels a lot different.

Backstage, it’s suspiciously quiet. All the essential personnel are there, the venue staff and his own people to break down the set, security and the like, but everyone else is gone. All of Louis’ friends, even Sarah. There’s no one in the hallways, waiting to congratulate him on a good show or mock him a little.

Harry’s not gone. He’s sitting a chair in Louis’ dressing room, elbows on his knees, bent forward with his head resting in his hands. For a second, Louis considers being the one to leave, to just walk out to the bus and avoid this altogether. 

He steps inside instead, letting the door click closed quietly behind him. Harry’s breathing is ragged, enough that Louis can see it from the door, visibly trying to keep it together. 

“Punch anyone while I was gone?” Louis asks, leaning back against the closed door. He doesn’t bother trying to hide the bitterness in his voice. 

Harry looks up, shooting him a look so unamused Louis’ natural instinct is to mirror it back at him. He always does this, flips out and then acts like it was completely justified. 

“Is that really what you want to say to me right now?”

Oh, Louis has plenty of things he wants to say to Harry. Words are on the tip of his tongue, insults and confessions alike, words he should have said a long time ago, things he’s sure Harry already knows.

“Do I want to make sure that you didn’t try to punch my friend in the face when it was pretty clear that’s what you wanted to do?” Louis asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, Harry, that’s what I want to know.”

Harry stands up fast, sending the chair skittering along the floor behind him. He’s closing the distance between them fast, and Louis’ heart kicks up a few beats. There’s a wildly illogical impulse ingrained deep in him telling him to run. He has to actively push it back down, squeezing his fingers into the flesh of his own arms.

“Really?” Harry demands, less than a foot away. At the last second, Louis throws his hands up to stop Harry from crashing directly into him, keeping him at a distance. “You went up on stage and called me a _jealous dickhead_ in front of ten thousand people and you want to talk about your friend?”

The word drips with condescension, like he doesn’t believe that Luke is actually Louis’ friend. It’s exactly why Louis never wanted to tell him.

“Yes.”

The noise Harry makes is short and aggravated. Moving fast, he grabs Louis by the wrists and yanks his arms up over his head, closing the last foot of space between them and pinning Louis’ arms to the door with one hand. Instinctively, Louis tries to jerk them down, heart pounding. Harry’s got them held too high, though, or his grip is too good, and Louis isn’t going anywhere unless he employs some unfair tactics. 

For now, he stays where he is, pinned and breathing fast. 

“Let’s talk about your friend, then,” Harry says. His mouth is only a few inches away from Louis’. “Let’s talk about how long you’ve been fucking him behind my back for.”

Louis turns his head to the side, closing his eyes resolutely, keeping his mouth shut. It’s not fear that’s skittering its way down his spine. He’s not scared of Harry, not even like this. Doesn’t want Harry to get into a fight with Luke, sure, but he’s not _scared_ of Harry. It’s arousal. His body knows how to react to Harry, and it knows what it wants. There’s nothing Louis can do about it.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry says. “I should have fucking seen this coming. It’s exactly like you to go onstage and announce your feelings for me to the entire world before you talk to me about them.”

Heat burns in the pit of Louis’ stomach. He turns his wrists again, searching for a point of weakness in Harry’s grip. Has no idea what he’ll do with it if he finds one. Harry’s grip is tight to the point of almost burning, and it feels so good Louis wants to melt into it. “You trying to tell me that you didn’t know, then? ‘Cause I gotta say, you’re awfully handsy for someone who had no idea what my _feelings_ are.”

“Sometimes it’s like you _want_ to push me away,” Harry says. His breath is warm against Louis’ cheek, minty. “You just love me that much, huh, you don’t know what to do with it half the time?”

His grip has loosened a little. Louis jerks his wrists free, surges up onto his toes and kisses Harry with all the anger he’s got.

Harry shoves him back up against the door, kissing him back. He’s brutal about it, tastes like fire and ash like he’s been chain smoking, licking into Louis’ mouth. It’s not a gentle kiss, and Harry takes it over quickly, hands finding their way to Louis’ arse and urging him up off the floor entirely. Louis clutches at Harry’s shoulders, eyes closed, trying to suck in shuddering breaths between licks of Harry’s tongue in his mouth.

The press of Harry’s cock against him is unmistakable, hard and thick. He’s rocking his hips, just a little, a slow and steady grind, kissing Louis like he’s never going to stop.

Louis could come just from this. Thinks he _wants_ to come just from this, still in his sweat-soaked stage clothes, from Harry manhandling him and kissing him like he knows everything Louis needs.

Someone’s knocking on the door, hard enough that the wood is vibrating against Louis’ back. Harry stops kissing him slowly, biting at Louis’ bottom lip before letting go. His eyes are greener than normal, pupils blown, when Louis manages to open his.

“What,” Louis says, flinching at the way his voice cracks in the middle, embarrassingly obvious. He sounds turned on even to his own ears. Harry shifts, still holding all of Louis’ weight up with one arm, thumb rubbing teasingly along the spot he’d bitten on Louis’ lip.

“We’re going to be behind schedule if we don’t leave in the next twenty minutes,” Rob calls through the door. He’s using his professional voice, and it’s a dead giveaway that everyone out there knows exactly what’s going on in this room. 

Louis flushes, tries to lean back and gain a little breathing room. It would only take thirty more seconds for him to come if Harry put his hand down Louis’ jeans. “Okay,” he says. His voice breaks a little more as Harry follows him, mouth skimming gently down the curve of Louis’ jaw. Flinches again when Harry picks a spot to bite at, sucking hard enough to draw blood to the surface.

Ten seconds. Another ten seconds of this and Louis is going to come in his jeans, even without Harry touching him properly. He shifts, one leg dropping back down to the floor, whining, “Stop, stop,” without knowing whether he means it or not.

Harry stops, though, letting Louis slip all the way down to the floor. He doesn’t step away, pressing his thumb against the spot he’d just bitten, eyes dark and hungry. Louis can’t help himself, reaching down to squeeze Harry’s cock through his jeans.

“You’re kind of giving me mixed signals, here, baby,” Harry says. His voice has gone tight, strained, putting an arm up against the door and kind of sagging into it, letting Louis feel him up.

“Maybe you should stop letting me get away with it, then,” Louis says, breathless. Harry’s hot and thick in his hand, even through the denim, and this has stopped feeling like a fight. He might as well have come right out and said _please fuck me_. 

As it is, the words are still on the tip of his tongue.

“Probably,” Harry agrees. He ducks back down, kissing Louis again, hot and lingering but less rough this time. Kisses Louis slow and sweet like they have all the time in the world, like they aren’t two seconds away from someone trying to open the door to make sure they haven’t killed each other.

Louis’ eyes prickle with tears. He kisses Harry back, trying to keep them at bay. It’s not solving anything, the kissing. Might even be making things worse, the two of them alone in this room with the real world on the other side of the door, just waiting to crash through it.

There’s another knock at the door, letting them know they’re out of time. Harry sighs into Louis’ mouth, tongue going achingly gentle as he slides it across Louis’ bottom lip one more time. He’s still holding one of Louis’ wrists against the door.

“I’m still mad,” Harry says, pulled away just enough that Louis can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “You lied to me for so fucking long and I can’t just get over it, no matter what you try to distract me with. I still want to punch your friend in the face, but I’m not going to. You and me, we’re going to have this out later, when your people aren’t breathing down our necks, but for now,” he trails off, squeezing Louis’ wrist gently.

Louis’ entire body feels like all it would take is a stiff breeze to make him fall apart. He opens his mouth, gearing up to snarl something terrible directly in Harry’s face, so overwhelmed he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Harry squeezes his wrist again, harder, knocking his forehead against Louis’ softly. He’s still got Louis pinned up against the door, looks entirely too pleased about it. “You know the way I love you,” he murmurs, quiet. “Don’t go freaking out about it now.”

Louis isn’t going to promise anything. Their exit from the dressing room a minute later falls terribly short of graceful, and for all that everyone is looking at them, no one actually says anything.

It’s a reprieve that isn’t going to last long.

What they did in the dressing room falls so far from _talking_ that nothing has changed in the five minutes it takes to leave the venue and get on the bus. They’re both still angry at each other. The only thing that’s changed is that their first kiss happened in the heat of that anger.

Somehow, that makes Louis angrier. He’s had ten years to think about what it would be like, that first kiss, and those thoughts ranged from sweet and longing to lustful and demanding. He never thought it’d happen out of anger, and it feels like he got cheated.

The conversation they need to have isn’t going to happen on the bus. Given time, Louis tends to stew in things, go over them in his head until he can’t take it anymore. For a while, that’s what he does, resisting the need for sleep out of pure spite. Thinks about sleeping in the lounge, even.

The thought only lasts half an hour. It’s Louis’ bunk, Louis’ bed, and he’s not going to be run out of it by some petulant hipster who’s only pouting because he thinks Louis likes someone else better than him. He hasn’t even seen Harry since they got on the bus. For all he knows Harry is hiding in the kitchen, having the exact same conversation with himself as Louis is.

Harry’s not. He’s lying in Louis’ bunk, stripped down to his pants, the way he always sleeps. He’s not asleep, though, staring up at the bottom of the bunk above him. 

“Move over,” Louis says. Harry’s lying on the edge. Louis would have to climb over him to get in, and he’s not doing that. This is _his_ bunk.

Harry flicks a glance over him, then goes back to staring up at the bunk. “No.”

For a second, Louis contemplates murder. Harry would deserve it. He had absolutely no right to get angry about Louis having sex with Luke, and even less of a right to kiss Louis like he did.

“Harry, I swear to god,” Louis hisses, keeping his voice low. It’s pretty obvious they’re fighting, and Luke has probably taken it upon himself to inform everyone else what they’re fighting about, but that doesn’t mean Louis wants all of his friends hearing this.

Harry ignores him, lying on his back with an arm tucked underneath his head. He’s so fucking stubborn, won’t move, and unless Louis wants to be standing out here all night he’s going to have to give in.

“Fuck you,” Louis mutters, still low. The only sign Harry even hears him is the slight tick in his jaw, muscle clenching. He doesn’t react as Louis puts a foot on the edge of the bottom bunk so he can scramble up, graceless and clumsy. On his face, at least. He puts a hand on the back of Louis’ thigh to support him, makes sure he doesn’t fall back out as he crawls over Harry.

The second Louis is in the clear, he knocks Harry’s hand off, yanking the blanket up from the bottom of the bunk and cocooning himself in it, putting his back firmly to Harry, pressed up against the wall so there’s as much space between them as possible.

It must be clear he’s doing it on purpose. Harry’s silence is loud, ticking, and Louis knows him, knows that he won’t be able to keep it in for long, so he grabs his headphones and jams them over his ears. They’re the big, bulky kind, noise-cancelling, and so uncomfortable when he’s lying on his side like this, but it’s so fucking worth it, picturing the look on Harry’s face.

Louis didn’t stop to take off any of his layers, so it’s uncomfortably hot in his blanket cocoon. Wriggling free of it would be like admitting defeat, though, and he’s not going to do that. He forces himself to deal with it, scrolling through the music library on his phone, trying to find an appropriately angry song to listen to. It’s going to be a long night with all of Harry’s pent-up anger behind him, but Louis is pissed off and determined.

He’s not expecting it when Harry rolls into him, laying an arm over Louis’ belly and tugging him away from the wall a bit. He’s going to say something. Louis knows it without having to look, so he hits shuffle, accepting the first song that comes on, and turns the volume up.

It’s Four Out of Five. It doesn’t have the vibe Louis was going for, but it’ll do. At least it’s not something of Harry’s. Louis might have had to break his phone if one of Harry’s songs came up.

Tucked into the blanket like this, he can barely even feel the heat of Harry behind him, or the weight of his arm on Louis’ side. He could almost ignore Harry entirely.

Apparently, Harry’s not going to put up with that. He lifts one side of the headphones off Louis’ ear. “Louis.”

Resolutely, Louis clicks his phone back to black, sending the bunk into darkness. It’s not pitch black, light from the hallway filtering through the curtain, but it’s dark enough that it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to it. He doesn’t answer, putting his phone down outside the blanket before pulling his hands inside, folding them against his chest. If he thought it would work, he’d pretend to be asleep.

Harry sighs in his ear, reaching across him to yank the cord out of Louis’ phone. “Louis,” he repeats, an edge of impatience in his voice that Louis bristles at.

“Why don’t you fuck off,” Louis suggests, slapping the blanket down so his hands are free again, trying to plug the cord back in. This is _his_ bunk, _his_ headphones, _his_ music. He can listen to it if he wants to.

Harry shifts, pushing himself up onto an elbow so he can stop Louis’ hands before they get there, pushing his wrists down against the mattress, only has to use one hand to do it. Louis sucks in a breath, thinking about struggling, about whether it’d be worth it or not. He could get free if he tried hard enough, because Harry might be stronger but Louis fights dirty, not above kicking Harry in the dick if necessary. It’d be loud, though, loud and obvious, and the boys might not intervene but they’d definitely hear it.

“Baby,” Harry whispers in his ear before Louis can decide, low and pained, so quiet it’s like it’s slipped out of him unconsciously. Louis can’t help the way he goes still, allowing Harry to pull the headphones off and untangle him from the blanket.

It feels a little like losing when Harry slots himself into place, against Louis’ back, breathing unevenly against his neck. Words threaten to slip off Louis’ tongue, angry and untrue. He bites them back, curling his fingers into his palms. Nothing between them can ever be as easy as it should be, so why should this be an exception?

“Baby,” Harry murmurs again, nudging his fingers underneath the hem of Louis’ shirt, splaying wide on his bared stomach. Louis forces himself to breathe properly. If that’s all Harry is going to say, just _baby_ over and over again, Louis is actually going to kick him in the dick.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it here,” Harry continues eventually, syllables dragging even more than normal, voice nothing more than a whisper. “Just – don’t go to sleep thinking I don’t love you.”

He’s such a fucking _dick_. Louis grits his teeth, presses his nails harder into his palms. It’s exactly none of their issues, whether they love each other. Or maybe it’s the only one. Whichever it is, the problem has never been that Louis doesn’t know how Harry feels about him. No matter how hard he’s tried not to think about it.

Louis doesn’t answer. Harry’s fingers flex against his stomach. “Did you hear me?”

Unwillingly, Louis jerks his head in a nod. If he opens his mouth he’s either going to start screaming or he’s going to say something that’ll start another fight, and they’re still on the bus. Feels like they’re never going to get off this bus.

“Lou,” Harry says, scraping his fingernails across Louis’ belly gently. Heat blooms under Louis’ skin, sharp and sudden. Louis has no idea what he’s trying to do – get a reaction, get Louis to say something, _what_. 

All it’s accomplishing is sending spikes of awareness through Louis’ body. Awareness of all the places their bodies are touching, how _intently_ Harry’s touching him. Part of Louis thinks Harry wants to roll him onto his belly and fuck him like that, let Louis pretend to be unaffected until he can’t anymore, until the noises spilling out of him are so loud and uneven there won’t be anyone who doesn’t know exactly what’s going on in this bunk.

Louis squirms, can’t help himself. Harry laughs against the back of his neck, breathless and turned on, and as much as they’re fighting the sound settles something inside Louis, the thing deep inside of him that always wants Harry to be happy with him. Arches backwards against Harry, trying to get closer. Knows that he’s asking for it when Harry’s hand slides all the way up his chest, still under his shirt, to settle on his throat, all warm, loose pressure.

“Louis,” Harry murmurs, mouth open and wet at the side of Louis’ neck, hips hitching restlessly against his arse. “Lou, baby, fuck.” 

His teeth are against Louis’ skin now, dragging slow and light, wet tongue licking over the little indents he’s making. A fake, soothing apology for the marks even as he keeps making them, sucking kisses and bruises there. Louis whimpers, trying to bite it back and failing. At some point, his hand went up to cover Harry’s. Doesn’t even remember doing it. It’s too loud, too obvious, and Louis doesn’t want him to stop.

He can feel Harry’s cock against his arse, fully hard, just from this. It makes him want more, makes him want everything. Harry doesn’t stop, working at one spot until Louis can’t take it anymore, pulls away with a gasp.

“Fuck,” Harry says, all gravel, like he’s about to start apologizing. Louis doesn’t give him a chance, turning around and swinging a leg over Harry’s hips, crashing down on top of him and kissing him. Harry grips at him, pulling him down into a jerky, unpolished rhythm, biting at Louis’ bottom lip, leaving bruises everywhere he touches. It feels too much like actual sex and not nearly enough like it.

A few seconds later, Stan bangs his fist down against outside of the bunks. “Louis,” he calls, loud and sharp, obviously meant to interrupt them. Louis doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t matter. Harry’s already pulled back, head actually resting on top of the pillow, staring up at Louis with his eyes still dark and his mouth still wet.

Louis sighs, rolling off Harry and onto the mattress. This time, when he puts his back to Harry, Harry doesn’t waste any time curling up around him, mouth resting against the nape of Louis’ neck. He doesn’t say anything either, breathing still a little erratic, and Louis can feel his cock pressed up against his arse, still hard.

There’s nothing to say, at least not with the entire bus listening in on them. Resolutely, Louis closes his eyes. Sleep takes a while to come.

In the morning, Louis climbs over Harry to get out of the bunk without saying anything to him. Harry watches him go, gaze heavy on Louis’ back.

His day isn’t as busy as some of his others. Louis does an interview with half of his mind stuck on the bus, on Harry, on whether he’s trying to glare Luke into submission. His team has blacklisted pretty much anything that has to do with last name – Harry’s name, One Direction, No Control, Fairfax, Louis’ entire sexual identity. All of it is off the table, and that makes the interview just barely bearable.

At the end of it, he’s not entirely sure that his distraction looked any different than it normally does to anyone who knows him. That’s something to be grateful for, he supposes. It’s not like everyone hasn’t heard about the incident already, but he’ll take any semblance of normalcy he can get.

Now that some time has passed, some time away from Harry, as minimal as it was, Louis is a little bit less angry. He feels just as guilty, though, and now that the anger isn’t burning as hot as it was twelve hours ago, it’s a lot harder to ignore the guilt.

The thing is, he doesn’t actually have anything to feel guilty about. Harry hasn’t told him about all the people he’s slept with over the years, and while Louis knows that it’s nowhere near the amount that the media has claimed, it’s still more than a handful. Harry has no right to be jealous because Louis has been having casual sex with someone.

That’s exactly what Louis is intending to tell him as he makes his way back onto the bus after the interview. He’s going to be calm, and he’s going to be rational, and he’s not going to yell. It’s going to be a very civilized discussion where Louis explains all of this to him.

All of Louis’ good intentions completely melt away as soon as he actually sees Harry. He hasn’t bothered to get dressed, lounging around in a pair of loose-fitting boxers and nothing else. Luke is nowhere to be seen, which is another thing Louis is grateful for. 

“Are you going to sit around half naked all day or are you planning to get dressed at some point?”

Louis’ voice comes out sharper than he intends it to, dripping with acid. It’s only Oli and Calvin sitting in the lounge with Harry. They’re all playing some sort of card game, and all three of them look up when Louis opens his mouth.

“I think it’s time for us to go get some lunch,” Oli stage whispers to Calvin, and the two of them are out of there so fast Louis barely even registers it.

Harry puts his cards down on the table and laces his fingers together in his lap, raising a sardonic eyebrow at Louis. “Since when do you criticize the amount of clothing I wear?”

Louis can’t have this conversation with Harry’s naked chest on display like this, tattoos out. “Go put on a shirt,” he orders. He barely prevents himself from lifting an arm to point to the bunks like a stern school teacher.

“You know what, I don’t think I’m going to do that,” Harry says, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Under any other circumstances, it would make Louis laugh. “So why don’t you just suck it.”

God, why is he at his funniest when Louis is mad at him? It’s so unfair.

For a minute, Louis stands there in silence, thinking about what he wants to say. Harry looks at him expectantly. 

“I didn’t fuck him to make you mad,” he settles on. The words come out of him abruptly, like they’re being torn out of his chest. They have the advantage of being true, and he thinks that has to be worth something.

Harry’s face screws up in distaste, probably from Louis’ not-so-eloquent choice of words. “No, you just lied to me about it for ten years because you thought I couldn’t handle the truth.”

Anger spikes in Louis’ chest, blossoming up hot and heavy. He tries to swallow it down, folding his arms across his chest. Breathes deeply and does his best not to react the way he always does, out of instinct and emotion.

This conversation is important. Louis is trying to treat it as such.

“So what?” he asks, squeezing his fingers against his armpits. “You’re going to look at me differently than the way you always do just because I had sex with someone?”

A muscle in Harry’s jaw ticks. He sits forward, bracing his elbows against his knees. The set of his shoulders is heavy. “Don’t dismiss it like that,” he says. “You know that it’s not about you having sex with someone.”

“What do you want me to do?” Louis explodes, flinging his hands out. “I can’t exactly go back twelve years and decide not to have sex with him! And even if I _could_ , I wouldn’t do that because I don’t regret it!”

Harry jerks like Louis had slapped him. “Twelve years?” he repeats.

Fuck.

“ _Twelve years_?” The pitch of Harry’s voice gets higher. He stands up like he’s not aware of his body moving, crossing the floor in his bare feet. He stops himself just before he actually reaches Louis, a few feet shy of being able to reach out to touch him.

Shit. Okay, Louis can fix this. “H,” he says softly, closing the last bit of distance between them and looking up at him, twisting his fingers in the hem of his own shirt. “Don’t – ”

_Do this to yourself_ is how that sentence is meant to end. It doesn’t make its way out of Louis’ mouth. Harry’s kissing him before it can, brutal and demanding. He doesn’t waste any time getting his tongue into Louis’ mouth, fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. He pulls a little, bending Louis backwards. Sharp pricks of pain filter through him, shooting directly down to his cock, and Louis is whining into Harry’s mouth before he can stop himself.

“Yeah, baby,” Harry murmurs, using his other hand to hitch Louis’ leg up around his waist, bending him a little farther. The kiss gets wetter, filthier, and Louis is so turned on that it wouldn’t take much for him to come. Harry’s cock is grinding against him, only prevented from being out by some flimsy cotton. Louis reaches down, trying to slide his hand down past the waistband of Harry’s boxers, get a hold of his cock.

As abruptly as the kiss had started, Harry drops Louis’ leg and pulls out of the kiss, putting a couple feet of distance back between them. He looks at Louis for a minute, cheeks flushed and mouth red, before shaking his head once and squeezing past Louis to the bunks.

Louis stands there, scalp tingling, mouth a little sore, and doesn’t let himself cry.

For the rest of the day, the way Harry touches him is hesitant, almost like he realizes that he shouldn’t be doing it but not before it’s too late to stop himself. Every time, he pulls back fast, a slight grimace on his face. They’re fighting, and Louis doesn’t want to be fighting, but he doesn’t know how not to be right now either. 

For a couple of days, it’s more of the same. Every time they try to talk about it they just end up yelling at each other, and then they end up kissing, and every time Louis nearly comes. It doesn’t take long before he’s so sexually frustrated that he’s taking it out on everyone else in the form of dumb pranks and mischievousness, and Harry doesn’t even put up a token attempt at stopping him.

It’s not an ideal situation, that’s for sure.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Stan says, no preamble or anything.

Louis raises an eyebrow at him. “Having a snack?”

Pointedly, he pops a handful of pretzels into his mouth, chewing loud and obnoxious. It’s too big of a handful, hard to swallow, but Louis is committed to the bit, so he manages.

Stan raises an eyebrow right back at him, unimpressed by Louis’ chipmunk impression. “What are you doing with Harry,” he elaborates, careful emphasis in his tone. It’s still not a question.

Rolling his eyes, Louis finishes swallowing the pretzels, going back for another handful. “Nothing.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Stan says, grabbing the pretzels right out of Louis’ hand and tossing them back in the bowl. “Do you really think what the two of you are doing is any way to start a healthy relationship?”

“Why are you so interested in my love life?” Louis asks, fighting the urge to go back for another handful. He’s not in the mood to wrestle over a few pretzels right now, and that’s exactly what would happen if he did.

Stan reaches out and flicks Louis’ ear. Louis flinches, putting a hand up to rub the sting away. “Ow, fuck you.”

“I’m not,” Stan says. “I am, however, interested in not having to rub your back and tell you that everything’s going to be okay when you come crying to me that things aren’t working out the way you thought they would.”

If it was anyone else, Louis would be defensive. Stan’s been his best friend since Louis was five, though, and that gives him more leeway than anyone else would get.

“We’re fine,” Louis says, giving Stan an encouraging grin and a thumbs-up. “Me and Harry, we’ll always be solid. We’re just taking a bit of time to figure things out, that’s all.”

“What you’re doing is talking about it for three minutes at a time before it turns into snogging,” Stan says. “He still looks like he’s about to murder Luke whenever they’re in the same room together, and everyone is uncomfortably aware of it.”

“He’s not going to murder him,” Louis says. “He’s a pacifist.” 

Stan’s eye roll is so hard Louis thinks it would be totally justified if they got stuck that way. “He’s a pacifist except when it comes to you, maybe. When it comes to you he’s irrational and protective. He always has been.”

It’s not like Stan is wrong about any of that, but. Looking like at someone murderously is a long way from actually murdering them. Louis has plenty of experience in that department.

“Look, I appreciate you looking out for my best interests, but if there’s one person in the world that I’m a hundred percent sure would never want to hurt me, it’s Harry,” Louis says.

“You’re being deliberately obtuse about this and I think you know it,” Stan says. “Pull your head out of your arse and actually _talk_ to him about it.”

With that, he marches his way out of the room. He always has been a bit of a drama queen.

Louis means to follow Stan’s advice, he does, except as soon as he sees Harry he gets irrationally angry about the way Harry reacted to finding out about Luke, and the cycle starts up all over again.

Louis walks into his dressing room. Harry’s a step or two behind him, irritation bleeding off of him, and they’re not fighting at this exact moment, but they’re also not _not_ fighting either.

It only takes one look into the room for Louis to freeze up. “Zayn,” he manages, and he means for it to sound more like a question than it does.

Behind him, Harry doesn’t say anything. Louis has to twist around to make sure he’s still there, that he hasn’t just turned around and walked right out.

He hasn’t, but he looks like he’s about to. Louis can’t think about that right now, turning back around to face Zayn, standing in the middle of Louis’ dressing room like it’s absolutely normal for him to be here.

“Hey, Louis,” Zayn says. His jaw only ticks a little as he adds, “Harry.”

What the fuck. What the _fuck_.

Harry doesn’t respond, stubbornly silent, and Louis thinks, kind of wildly, that it wasn’t enough, trying to keep Harry and Luke apart for the past few days, now he has to keep Harry and _Zayn_ apart?

Except that’s a thought that doesn’t make sense. Zayn might be here right now, inexplicably, but there’s no way he’s staying. Not when he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“What are you doing here?” Louis asks. It’s a good question. It’s a fucking _great_ question, actually, because they’re in Uncasville, and as far as Louis knows, Zayn hasn’t even left England in the past six months.

Not that he’s been keeping tabs on Zayn. They’ve barely even spoken over the last few years, exchanging nothing more than the occasional generic text or birthday acknowledgement. Louis hasn’t seen Zayn in person since – well. Since just after Zayn left.

“I came to talk to Harry, actually,” Zayn says, squaring his shoulders, looking past Louis at Harry.

Of all the things he could have said, that would have been the last thing Louis expected. Actually, scratch that, it wouldn’t have even made it onto the _list_.

“Did you,” Harry says, voice bland, the way it gets when he’s angry, when he’s _really_ fucking angry, taking a step forward. Absently, Louis puts an arm out to stop him from going any further, so he’s still standing between them, a buffer.

“Yeah,” Zayn says firmly. “Alone.”

This is turning into some kind of pissing contest. It’s like five years ago all over again, Louis getting thrown into the middle of it, trying to keep the peace between the two of them, and it was old then, so it’s even older now.

“Jesus Christ, Zayn,” Louis says. His voice comes out a lot more tired than he’d expected it to be. “Did you really think coming here to talk to him would be a good idea?”

And talk to him about _what_ , Louis wants to know. If Zayn came here to talk to anyone, it should be Louis. Harry wasn’t the one who got tossed to the side when he left. Louis spent five years in between them, the one who forced them to get along, to play nice, to hang out together, to be friends. _Louis_ is the one who got stabbed in the fucking back when Zayn left, so if he’s here now it should be to hash things out with him, not with Harry.

Zayn shrugs, eloquent as ever. “Yeah, mate,” he says. “Got something I need to talk to him about.”

“Well, _mate_ ,” Harry says, the word dripping with barely tamped in anger. His chest is warm against Louis’ arm, but he hasn’t pushed past it yet, so that’s something, at least. “It’s too bad I don’t give a shit about what you have to say, isn’t it?” 

For a second, it seems like it’s about to turn physical. Zayn takes a deep breath in, expression on his face turning mutinous, before it settles into something more placid. It’s his interview face, media trained and carefully guarded, and it’s the thing that has Louis taking a step back, so his shoulder is pressed up against the center of Harry’s chest. He lets his arm drop, and he knows that it looks like exactly what it is – like he’s choosing Harry.

Zayn’s expression doesn’t flicker. He never used to look at Louis like that, so much of himself removed, not even at the end when he didn’t have anything left to give. Just let Louis shout himself hoarse until he wasn’t there anymore at all.

“I know,” Zayn says. “I also know that it’s way past time that the two of you got your shit together, so here I am.”

“What the fuck,” Louis says, out loud this time. He tries to get Harry to start moving without turning around, pushing back against him. Harry doesn’t move, a wall of solid muscle when he wants to be. “You have no fucking right to be doing this, Zayn. You should leave.”

The arm Harry drapes over Louis’ shoulder, down his chest, is nothing short of intentional, possessive and heavy. Louis doesn’t have to be looking at him to know that his face is drawn, challenging. “I’m here,” Harry says. “I’ve _been_ here the entire time, in it with him. Don’t start this shit with me again.”

That sounds like the middle of a conversation Louis has never been privy to. He frowns, shaking Harry’s arm off and taking a few steps forward, until he’s standing an equal distance away from both of them.

“Are either of you even seeing me right now?” he demands, gesturing between the three of them wildly. “Wanna enlighten me as to what the fuck is going on?”

Harry and Zayn stare at each other silently, judgingly. Louis thinks back on the last ten years, thinks about all the things he could have missed in that time when he was distracted or not paying attention. It’s not that Harry and Zayn hadn’t gotten along, but there was always some kind of tension between them that Louis had never understood. He’d chalked it up to them being different people, and they’d always put the time and effort in, but the two of them had never gotten along the way any of the rest of them did. A slow thought is dawning in Louis’ head, one he doesn’t like.

“Are you – have the two of you been _fighting_ over me?”

“No,” Harry says, at the same time as Zayn says, “Yes.”

What the _fuck_. Louis digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, red spots blurring over everything. If he had something to throw, he’d probably be throwing it. “Tell me you’re not being serious right now,” he says, leaving his hands pressed against his eyes. If this is the reason for the tension between Harry and Zayn – if _he_ is the reason for it – 

“It’s not like that,” Zayn says, scoffing, and Louis just can’t deal with this anymore. Whatever it is. 

“I don’t care,” he decides abruptly, pulling his hands away from his eyes. “Figure your shit out by yourselves, I’m done being stuck in between you.”

He realizes just how true the words are as they come out of his mouth. He doesn’t wait around to see either of their reactions, elbowing his way past Harry and out the door.

It’s half an hour before anyone comes to find him. Louis is expecting it to be Harry. Might have even put himself in a place he knows Harry would think to look for him, but it’s not Harry who comes. 

“Can I sit?” Zayn asks. 

Louis looks up at him, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. He wants to light it, but there’s a smoke detector in the ceiling above his head, and he’s pretty sure it would set it off. For a second, he thinks about doing it anyway, just to avoid this conversation. There’s so much of him that’s still angry at Zayn for leaving, but there’s an even bigger part of him that’s still hurt by it.

“Do whatever you want,” Louis mutters, looking back down at his fingers. “You always do anyway.”

Zayn sits, folding himself down onto the floor gracefully, leaning back against the wall opposite Louis. They’re in a maintenance closet, one that’s thankfully free of any gross smells. The lightbulb sways gently above them, harsh light beaming down on them. Zayn looks good, even with the awful lighting, clad in a leather jacket and black jeans, some kind of artistic t-shirt underneath the jacket. 

Great. Now Louis is thinking about him like he’s an ex-boyfriend or something. This entire situation is fucking with his head.

“Do you want to know what we talked about?” Zayn asks after a minute, breaking the silence. He didn’t take the bait, rising above it. 

Louis snorts, sliding a fingernail under the edge of the paper of the cigarette, slowly wiggling it loose. “No.”

He feels small and petulant, and he wants Harry. Wishes it had been Harry who came looking for him instead of Zayn. Harry would kiss him to take his mind off it, and yeah, maybe they haven’t really talked about anything, haven’t sorted anything out, but they love each other, and that’s enough.

“I’m not in love with you,” Zayn says. His hands are folded in his lap, sleeves of his jacket pushed up a bit, and out of the corner of his eye Louis notices that it looks like Zayn’s got some new ink. “In case that’s what you were thinking.”

“I wasn’t,” Louis says. Abruptly, the paper comes loose, spilling loose tobacco all over his lap. Great.

“Hey,” Zayn says, throwing a lighter at him. It hits Louis in the chest, and the unexpectedness of it makes him look up. “I love you, but I’m not in love with you, and I definitely have never felt the same way about you as Harry does.”

Louis scowls at him, flicking the lighter onto the floor. “I know that,” he snaps irritably. He really wishes people would stop saying that to him. “Why the fuck are you _here_ , Zayn?”

Zayn scowls back at him. “How many times did I tell you that your thing with Luke was going to blow up in your face as soon as Harry found out?” he demands.

“So, what, you flew three thousand miles just to say I told you so to my face?” Louis asks, biting the words out. He glances down at the lighter, considers picking it up and hurling it at Zayn’s face.

Zayn takes in a slow, audible breath. “No,” he says, releasing it slowly through his teeth. “Fuck, Louis, I came here to knock some sense into Harry. Did you think he was just going to let it go? He can be more stubborn than you when he wants to.”

“So you came here to _save me_?” Louis asks scathingly. “After five years of silence you suddenly want to play hero?”

Zayn throws another lighter at him. Louis sees this one coming and slaps it out of the air. “You want to do this now, then?” he demands. “Fuck it, fine. I _never_ wanted that life, and if you keep pretending that you didn’t know that we’re never going to get past it.”

Resentfully, Louis stays quiet. There was a part of him that always knew that Zayn wasn’t entirely happy, but it’s not like Zayn ever talked about it. He can’t blame Louis for not reading his mind.

“Look,” Zayn says, rubbing his face. “That’s an entirely different conversation, yeah? I fucked up, leaving like I did, and I know that. I couldn’t handle having to pretend to be someone I wasn’t anymore, couldn’t handle having to hide my religion, my _ethnicity_ , and you’ll never know what that was like for me.”

Louis can’t hide his flinch. It’s not like he didn’t know why Zayn left, at least a little, but hearing Zayn say it so plainly is – it makes Louis feel like a shitty friend. 

“You could have talked to me,” he says, folding his hands together in his lap. “I was never mad that you wanted to leave. I just – you should have talked to me.”

Should have talked to any of them, all of them. They wouldn’t have wanted to see Zayn go, but all of them would have understood. It was him leaving without an explanation, all of a sudden, that made Louis angry. Hurt.

Zayn’s laugh is short and humourless. “No, I couldn’t,” he says, “because then I would have had to tell you that the other part I couldn’t take anymore was watching you and Harry try to deal with not being together despite all the feelings you had. I would have told you that I thought your decision not be together for the sake of the band was a fucked up one, and we would have fought about it, and I still wouldn’t have left on good terms. It seemed like the worse option at the time.”

It’s not like he hadn’t told Louis that a thousand other times over the years. It wouldn’t have been the first time they fought over it.

“I would have been fine,” Louis says. “You know how I know? Because one of my best friends wouldn’t have fucked off out of my life without even saying goodbye. I would have been a lot better than I was with the way you ended things.”

Jesus, he’s talking like Zayn was his boyfriend again. He really needs to stop doing that.

The eyebrow Zayn raises at him is unimpressed. “Really?” he asks. “Because I think that no matter how I left you would have cried about it for a week straight, and if one of the last things I said to you was that I thought you and Harry should stop pretending like you weren’t in love with each other, you wouldn’t have let him comfort you.”

Louis’ anger had been simmering gently in his chest, not as hot as it was when he first saw Zayn in the dressing room. It boils up now, burning. “Fuck off,” he bites out.

None of it is wrong, and that’s what Louis is angry about. Zayn shouldn’t be able to read him this well, not after all this time. Not when Louis barely has any idea what’s going on right now.

“I get it,” Zayn continues like Louis hadn’t said anything. “Why you didn’t want to. And that made me angry, too, that the two of you were so worried about what it would look like to the rest of the world if you were together, how it might impact our success, that you couldn’t just let yourselves be happy. It fucking sucked, man, and the more time passed, the angrier I got about it.”

“Well that’s fucking great,” Louis says. “It’s my life, though, and it was _my_ choice. It had nothing to do with you.”

Zayn breathes in slowly and deeply, the way he used to on the rare occasion that Louis had pushed him a bit too far. Before Louis can start building up a righteous indignation about it, Zayn says, “You don’t even remember the way he was around you, do you?”

Louis opens his mouth to snap out, “I was _there_ , Zayn – ”

“He would have done anything for you,” Zayn interrupts. “He’d still do anything for you, but back then he would do it at the expense of his own sanity, trying to take care of you and not even realizing when he was falling apart himself.”

Louis flinches. He actually jerks back, jerks away. He can feel his face twisting, panic quickly giving way to a surge of anger. It’s probably his biggest fear, needing someone so much that they end up neglecting themselves, and Zayn knows that.

“No one asked you to come here,” Louis says, not even trying to control the heat in his voice. “I haven’t needed you for the last five years, and I sure as shit don’t need you now.”

“I know you don’t,” Zayn agrees. “But he needed someone to knock some sense into him, and it might as well be someone he already hates, right?”

His smile is small and self-deprecating. Louis really wants to enjoy it, the pain that’s written on Zayn’s face that says he knows exactly how much he’s fucked everything up, but he can’t. Sometimes he really wishes he could be that person.

"He doesn’t hate you,” Louis says. “How did you even know what was happening, anyway?”

That’s the more important thing. In all honesty, Harry kind of does hate Zayn, at least a little. A lot of things about their relationship are starting to make more sense now, but Louis didn’t want to be in between them ten years ago, and he definitely doesn’t want to be in between them now. If they want to fix things between them that’s none of Louis’ business. And if they don’t, well. There’s a lot of history there that he can’t do anything about anyway.

“Found out through Stan,” Zayn says, shrugging a shoulder.

For a second, anger surges through Louis’ entire body, different that it was before. “Stan has been talking to you about me?”

“No,” Zayn says. His eye roll is completely unnecessary. “You can wipe that murderous look off your face, Stan wouldn’t talk to me if I offered him a million pounds. Stan talks to Liam, though, and Liam told me.”

That’s almost more surprising. Louis didn’t know that Liam and Zayn had been in contact beyond the odd single sentence text message. He guesses it makes sense though. Liam has always been the most forgiving out of all of them.

“Don’t talk to my friends about me,” Louis grumbles. “I’m going to fire Liam.”

Zayn doesn’t bother asking what he plans on firing Liam from. Good. If Zayn’s leaving was like a divorce, Louis is the jaded ex who got to keep all the assets in the process. He’s not planning on giving any of them up.

“I should get going,” Zayn says, pushing himself to his feet in a way that looks graceful and easy. He busies himself brushing non-existent dirt off his jeans as Louis clambers to his own feet a few seconds later. “I just didn’t want to leave without telling you that I was sorry. And that you definitely owe Harry a shit ton of sexual favours for not telling him about Luke.”

“Okay,” Louis says. Zayn looks at him for a second longer before he nods and turns to leave. Louis’ hand shoots out to catch him by the elbow before he can pull the door open. “Don’t – ” he hesitates for a second. “Text me tomorrow?”

Zayn looks at him over his shoulder, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Is your reply just going to be _fuck off_?”

“If it is you’ll take it and you’ll like it,” Louis retorts. Zayn’s arm is warm even through the layer of his jacket. “You’re going to have to do a whole lot more than helping me get laid to earn my forgiveness.”

Zayn’s smile doesn’t fade. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry I was such a shitty friend to you.”

Louis only hesitates for a second longer before pulling Zayn in for a hug. Zayn hugs him back tightly, face mushed against the side of Louis’ head, and whispers, “I love you, you know,” before he actually leaves.

Louis has to swallow really hard to keep himself from saying it back. They’re not there, not yet, but they’re somewhere. Somewhere a lot closer than they were twenty-four hours ago.

He shakes it off the best he can and goes to find Harry.

“So,” Harry says. He’s bouncing a tennis ball against a wall idly, reaching up to catch it when it comes back above his head.

Louis sits down against the wall across from him, catching the ball the next time Harry throws it. “So,” he echoes, tossing it back.

“Zayn said that I was being a fuckwit and that I need to get over myself,” Harry says, holding the ball between his hands, rolling it against his palms gently.

“You’re just a fuckwit in general,” Louis says, gesturing for Harry to throw him the ball back. Harry does, and Louis just barely catches it, fumbling it against his chest.

Harry’s looking at him expectantly. Louis sighs and drops the ball into his lap, slumping down and stretching his leg out so he can knock the toe of his shoe against Harry’s. If they have to have this conversation, he supposes it might as well be here, in a narrow room with the door closed. It’s not like there’s really a better place to have it.

“It started before I even met you,” he says abruptly, trying to get it out of the way. “It was always casual, never meant anything, and I never told you because I knew you’d flip out about it.”

“Okay,” Harry says slowly. “You can see how it might have looked a little different than that to me, right?”

Louis would give a lot of things to not be having this conversation right now. He’d give even more to not have to have this conversation at all. A lot of him – most of him, right now – has always wanted to skip the beginning of their relationship and go straight to the middle. Once he realized what it would take for them to be together, all the other things they’d have to sacrifice, he wanted to be past this part. 

Especially talking about the stuff with Luke.

“You’re a jealous fuckwit,” Louis says, tossing the ball back at Harry. “No matter how you found out it was always going to look different than it actually is to you.”

Harry catches the ball. Instead of throwing it back, he puts it in his jacket pocket. “Don’t do that,” he says. “Just – tell me the truth, alright? I can’t handle you lying to me right now.”

“I’m not lying, you dickhead,” Louis says. He wishes he still had the ball so he could throw it at Harry’s face. “Don’t fucking accuse – ”

“Not lying,” Harry interrupts before Louis can gain too much momentum. “Shit. I mean, you don’t tell me the truth all the time. You avoid questions like it’s your job sometimes.”

Sometimes that’s the way it feels. Still, Louis puts his hands on his knees, clutching at them so he won’t start gesturing wildly and give away everything he’s thinking. “What are you asking me, Harry?”

“What am I asking,” Harry murmurs, more to himself than to Louis. “I guess what I’m asking is, did you avoid telling me about Luke because you thought it was going to break my heart?”

“No,” Louis says. He doesn’t have to stop to think about it. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you would read more into it than it actually is. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would equate him being my friend to him being something more, and that was never the case with us.”

Christ. If he’s going to do this, he might as well do it all the way. He pushes himself up onto his knees and makes his way into Harry’s lap, sinking down until the heat of Harry’s thighs is pressing right up against his arse.

“If there was anyone I was going to date over the past ten years, like really, actually date, it would have been you,” Louis says, tipping his face closer to Harry’s. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Harry says. He stops for a minute, frustrated. His thoughts filter across his face, just shy of Louis being able to figure out what he’s thinking. He’s holding Louis by the hips, though, so whatever it is, it’s more progress than they’ve made over the past four days.

Louis is still a little bit bitter, so he doesn’t want to attribute it to Zayn showing up.

“I don’t want to know the specifics,” Harry says abruptly, meeting Louis’ gaze. “I don’t think I’m ever going to want to know the specifics. I just – you never had any feelings for him? In the entire time you were – ”

He stops short of finishing the thought with _fucking him_. It still hangs in the air between them, unsaid but not unheard.

“I didn’t have sex with him when you and I were in the same place,” Louis says. “Not even once. You have to know that I wasn’t even thinking about having sex with other people when I was with you.”

It’s not like the thought never crossed Louis’ mind, that he _should_ be wanting to go out and get laid. For all that they’ve been wrapped up in each other for a decade, they weren’t ever together, and that was always in a very pointed way. Louis should have been going out and getting laid no matter where Harry was, with whoever he wanted, but he never wanted anyone else as much as he wanted Harry. So.

“That doesn’t really answer the question,” Harry says.

“Of course it does,” Louis says. “I’ve been half in love with you since I was eighteen, there was never any room for anyone else like that. Luke is just a friend that I used to have sex with sometimes.”

Harry’s sigh is soft and slow, breath hissing out from between his teeth. “I’ve been fully in love with you since I was sixteen,” he says, smile quirking at the corner of his lips. “And I’m really fucking glad that you’ve never wanted to be anything other than mine.”

So goddamn cocky. Part of Louis wants to muster up some indignation at it, even if it’s all for show. Mostly, though, he’s just so in love that it hurts sometimes. Less right now, sitting in Harry’s lap and knowing that it’s finally their time. All of that ache, the pain, has turned into something so much better.

“So where does that leave us?” he asks. “Are you still going to try punching him in the face the next time you see him? Because he’s still going to be my friend tomorrow.”

“I’ll do my best not to,” Harry says. “I’m not going to lie, it’s going to take me a while to get over the fact that he’s seen you naked.”

“You’ve seen me naked too, you dick,” Louis points out. 

“Yeah, and I’m constantly jerking off thinking about your bare arse,” Harry says. “There’s no way that he doesn’t do the same, especially not after being in it.”

Jesus. Sometimes it’s easy to forget exactly how dirty Harry’s mouth actually is – he’s always been so much better at pretending to be clean cut than the rest of them.

“Don’t think about that,” Louis says, tangling his fingers in Harry’s necklace to make sure he still has his attention. “Think about all the things I’m going to let you do to me that he never has instead.”

That definitely gets Harry’s attention. He slides his hands under Louis’ shirt, palms settling against his bare back, fingers spread wide like he’s trying to touch as much of Louis’ skin as he can. “Like what?”

“Well, I’m definitely going to let you do me bare at some point,” Louis says, shrugging like it’s no big deal despite the way that his heart is beating a little faster. “No point in constantly paying for condoms when I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you. Smaller carbon footprint and all that.”

Harry’s fingers press into Louis’ skin hard. He doesn’t say anything, stunned into silence, lips parted, eyes wide and green. It’s almost like he’s never thought about it, which can’t be true. There’s no way he hasn’t fantasized about filling Louis up with his come, not with the way he’s obsessed with putting his mark on things. Louis is pretty sure that he wrote Kiwi as some sort of weird fever dream about knocking him up, despite the biological incompatibilities there. He wouldn’t even let Louis see the lyrics until the album came out. Just made up increasingly lame excuses about why Louis couldn’t see them.

“Did I break you?” Louis checks, after another minute of silence. “You’re really into my arse, huh?”

“Holy fuck,” Harry breathes out. His fingers are going to leave a permanent mark in Louis’ skin if he doesn’t let up soon. “Holy _fuck_. Have you ever? With anyone?”

At least they’re off the topic of Luke, Louis supposes. It’s not quite solved, not yet, but he trusts Harry to try to get over it as quickly as he can. And Louis did keep it from him for ten years, so he can really only expect so much.

“Of course not,” Louis says, a little annoyed. “Like I was ever going to let anyone come in me bare except for you. Why, have you?”

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head slowly. His grip on Louis’ back eases a little, fingers drifting over his skin aimlessly. “Never even wanted to.”

Mollified, Louis slumps down a little, squirming around until he’s more comfortable. If it makes Harry’s breath catch in the process, well. That’s not his fault. “But you’ve thought about doing it with me?”

More silence. It’s slightly guilty silence this time. Louis looks back up, watches Harry chew at the inside of his cheek. “You’ve never even thought about doing it with a condom when it comes to me, have you,” he realizes.

“I – ” Harry starts, shrugging helplessly. “Can you blame me? You know what your arse looks like.”

“What makes you think that I’m going to want your come dripping out of my arse all the time?” Louis demands, poking Harry in the chest.

Harry grabs his hand, stilling it. It leaves Louis’ back a little cold, but Harry’s other hand stays where it is, so he supposes that’s acceptable. “It doesn’t have to be all the time,” Harry tries. “We can use a condom when you want to, or there’s plenty of other things we can do that don’t involve penetration.”

“Yeah right,” Louis says, pulling his hand free so he can use it to poke Harry in the chest again, a little higher this time. “You’re gonna want to come in me bare all the time. You’re probably going to want to fuck me bare just before I go on stage tomorrow, come in me seconds before the lights go down so I’ll have no choice but to do the entire set like that, wet and sore and open from how good you made me take it.”

Around them, the room spins dizzyingly fast. Louis’ back hits the floor before he really registers what’s going on, pinned by the weight of Harry on top of him. He tilts his face up for the kiss he’s sure is coming, digging his nails into Harry’s shoulders, trying to open his thighs as wide as they’ll go so Harry will have room to get them off, to make them both come so hard Louis won’t be able to walk for at least twenty minutes afterwards.

None of that happens.

“I’m not going to fuck you tomorrow,” Harry says. Their mouths are only a needle width apart, close enough that Louis would barely even have to move in order to get them to connect. Close enough that Louis can practically taste him. He glances up, trying to gauge Harry’s expression, but they’re too close to be able to make it out. “I’m not going to fuck you tonight, either. Or right now, for that matter.”

“What?” Louis asks, blinking dumbly. He can feel how hard Harry’s cock is, thick and full against his own even through all their layers. He knows Harry wants him, can feel it in the depth of his voice with every word he says.

Harry exhales slowly, his breath clean and minty against Louis’ face. “Our first time isn’t going to be in some cramped closet backstage at one of your shows,” he says. “It’s not going to be in your bunk on the bus. I didn’t wait ten years to fuck you a couple of hours before you have to leave again to do an interview or some other random promo.”

Louis puts two fingers against Harry’s cheek and pushes him back a little, so he can see his face properly. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that the way I want to fuck you doesn’t lend itself to quickies at a venue after a show,” Harry says. “I’m saying that I want our first time to be in a proper bed, and if it can’t be at home then it’s at least gotta be in a hotel room. I’m saying that I need at least twenty-four hours alone with you before I’m going to be able to let you leave the bed for longer than ten minutes at a time.”

He puts his hand against Louis’ jaw, holding him still. “I’m saying that I want to love you the way you deserve to be loved, Louis Tomlinson.”

It’s unbearably romantic, that’s what that is. Louis can feel himself flushing, can feel the vulnerability in his fingertips where they’re still pressed against Harry’s cheek. When it comes right down to it, in all the ways that matter, he’s always been Harry’s. No matter how hard it was.

“Isn’t that what you’ve always done?”

Their kiss is less heated than all of their other ones. Gentler. Sweeter. Louis opens up for Harry’s tongue, sucks it into his mouth, and lets Harry love him the way he said he would. When they break apart a few minutes later, nothing has changed. He’s still Harry’s, because he’s always been Harry’s. And Harry has always been his.

“So is that a yes?”

Louis doesn’t even need to think about it.

“Yes.”

It turns out that when Louis agreed to wait, he didn’t realize exactly what he was agreeing to. He texts Sarah to get her to send him the tour schedule, which leads to a barrage of questions about how he’s managed to lose it the last six times she’s send it to him, which leads to more questions about why he wants it now. That leads to a face-to-face conversation between Harry and Sarah, which is exactly what Louis was trying to avoid by texting her in the first place. Sarah grills Harry on what his intentions are like she’s his mother, which only makes him miss his mum all over again. And that doesn’t even make any sense because his mum had loved Harry and let him sleep in Louis’ bed with him when they were still teenagers, even though she had always known about the complicated nature of their relationship.

Sarah’s probably the only person in the entire world Harry isn’t capable of charming with some slick compliments. It’s actually part of the reason Louis hired her – he enjoys it maybe a little bit too much when he gets to see other people shoot Harry down, and sometimes Louis isn’t capable of wrangling him on his own. Not that he would ever admit it. It’s just – before all of this, back when he was looking for someone to support him on tour, Harry was around a lot, doing such a good job taking care of him that Louis almost couldn’t stand it. It’s what he’s always done, doesn’t even know another way to be when he’s around Louis, but they both have reasons that they were able to let go so easily when 1D went on hiatus, and that was one of Louis’.

It’s hard wanting to let someone take care of you like that when you want to be with them properly. Louis has never actually told Sarah about any of it, but he’s pretty sure she’s always known. He doesn’t know what he would have done if she had liked Harry better than him.

Sarah won’t accept Harry’s assurances that he only wants to make Louis happy and be with him forever, and demands to know what their long-term plan is for being together as a celebrity couple. That leads to a frantic conversation with both of their PR teams, and then a few more frantic conversations with Niall and Liam and their people, and then the circle keeps getting wider until pretty much everyone knows.

It’s three days before Louis even has his own tour schedule in hand. He’s dressed in his stage clothes, ten minutes before his cue, huddled with Harry in yet another cramped venue closet. The lock on the door is broken, so Harry’s keeping it closed with his foot wedged up against it.

“All of this because you wanted to schedule time to fuck,” Louis grumbles, scanning the paper as quickly as he can. At least Sarah actually got it printed out for him so he doesn’t have to waste time trying to get it to open properly on his phone.

“Oh, baby, it’s going to be so much more than just a fuck and you know it,” Harry says, trying to tug the paper out of Louis’ hand so he can get a better look at it.

Determined, Louis hangs onto it. This is his tour, he should know what’s happening on a day to day basis better than Harry does.

“I’m just saying, we could have gotten off together at least ten times already,” Louis points out. Harry said at least twenty-four hours, and twenty-four hours isn’t that easy to come by on a touring schedule.

“Sure, we could have done that if you like going out in public looking like you just got fucked within an inch of your life and without having me there to hold your needy little hand when all you wanna do is sit in my lap and let me kiss you,” Harry says, succeeding in pulling the paper out of Louis’ grip.

“Wow, rude,” Louis says, hooking his fingers in Harry’s belt loops and tugging him a little closer. Mostly, he’s impressed. It’s one of his flaws, that he likes it when Harry’s visibly frustrated. He’s so reserved a lot of the time, perfectly polite to most people, so the fact that he isn’t around Louis has always done things for him.

Harry sighs, looking away from the paper and finally at Louis. “Sorry. I’m just – frustrated.”

Sexually frustrated, he means, because he won’t let them do _anything_ that involves exchanging bodily fluids. And there’s a lot of things they could be doing that involve exchanging bodily fluids.

Louis doesn’t point that out. Instead, he says, “There’s a thirty-six hour gap a week from now. That’s the closest thing.”

Frowning, Harry looks back at the schedule. “You have two radio interviews that day.”

“I’ll cancel them,” Louis says immediately. “You think some small-time radio interview where I get asked the same questions I’ve been asked for the last three years is more important than getting your cock in me?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Harry drawls, leaning forward and pressing a fast, deep kiss to Louis’ mouth. He’s pulling away even faster, yanking the door open and stepping backwards out of the closet. “I’m pretty sure you missed your cue, by the way.”

“Shit,” Louis says, and runs for the stage.

He’s both bouncy and giddy for the whole set. They finally have a date.

“Put on your swim trunks,” Harry says, lounging in the doorframe like that’s something normal people do.

“No,” Louis says, refusing to look up from where he’s scribbling phrases in a notebook, trying to find a metaphor that doesn’t come across too emotional.

Harry sighs, really dragging it out. “Lewis.”

“I don’t even have any swim trunks,” Louis says, frowning down at the page. “And I don’t want to go swimming with you at two in the morning.”

“Sure you do,” Harry says easily, refusing to listen to Louis like a good lad. “I have a _surprise_ for you.”

Louis’ interest is piqued. He chances a look up from underneath his eyelashes. Harry’s wearing a baggy white t-shirt and a pair of fluorescent pink swim trunks, flip-flops on his feet.

They’re still on the bus. Granted, they’re parked somewhere, but they’re still on the bus in the middle of Virginia somewhere, on a deserted highway with nothing around for miles. Louis’ curiosity has always been his downfall.

“I actually don’t have any swim trunks, I’m not just trying to be difficult,” he says, looking back down at the page.

Fabric hits him full in the face. Louis splutters, batting it down. Harry’s grinning at him, arms folded across his chest, all of his weight resting on one leg. “Sure you do,” he repeats.

Louis would put up a bigger fuss about it, but there’s something about the way Harry looks at him, something bright and happy that sits in the middle of his chest. He gets up, but he flips Harry off along the way.

The swim trunks are _tiny_. They’re new, tag still attached and everything, but they’re _tiny_. Louis looks at himself in the bathroom mirror the best he can, twisting to check out how tight they pull across the arse.

The answer is very. They’re black, though, even if they are truly indecent. Louis considers his reflection for a minute longer before he wiggles his way back into his joggers, keeping the trunks on underneath. 

“Alright, where are we going, then?” he demands, back out in the open with his arms folded across his chest, challenging.

Harry ignores his question, pushing himself up from the kitchenette table. It leaves him a foot from where Louis is standing, distance he quickly closes. Slides a finger between the waistband and Louis’ skin, trying to tug it open enough to get a look inside. “Are you wearing them?”

Heat prickles low in Louis’ stomach. He slaps Harry’s hand down before he can get far enough to tell on his own. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

“Okay, baby,” Harry says obediently, backing off. The dimple in his cheek is still there, though, taunting. Louis narrows his eyes, gestures impatiently.

“Well?”

There’s a car waiting for them outside the bus. Louis frowns at it, too, suspicious. Gets into it anyway, dumping his phone into Harry’s lap so he can buckle his seatbelt. The ride takes about fifteen minutes, time in which Harry tells some long, morbid story that Louis doesn’t listen to. He’s rambling even more than normal tonight, clearly trying to distract Louis from whatever this supposed surprise is going to be, but he’s not really a good liar and Louis knows all his tells anyway.

The waterpark they pull up to is an indoor one. All of the lights are shut off, which makes sense, considering how late it is. Louis gets out of the car, stretching his back, before he looks over at Harry.

“Is this going to be a break and enter scenario? Because I’m not opposed, naturally, but I think you probably could have dressed a little less conspicuously if it is.” 

Harry’s shorts are truly an eye-sore. The first chance he gets, Louis is going to burn them.

“As much as I’m aware of your unreserved enjoyment for breaking into places, no,” Harry says, starting towards the front door. “I wouldn’t take you on a date that involves breaking and entering.”

Louis follows him, shoving his hands into his pockets. That explains it, then. Figures Harry would do something big and dumb and call it a date when all Louis wants to do is have sex. “That’s what I want, though,” he says. There’s an employee waiting to let them in at the door. Harry makes nice for a few minutes, shaking her hand and thanking her for staying so late for them while Louis loiters in the background, leaving him to it. People have always fallen for Harry’s charming act better than Louis’. Maybe because he tends to be a little bit more sincere than Louis does.

The girl doesn’t try to walk them into the park. Immediately, that makes Louis suspicious. Nonetheless, he follows Harry down a dimly lit pathway, paying more attention to the width of Harry’s shoulders under his thin t-shirt than where they’re going. It’s why he doesn’t notice the sudden brightness in the park or the sound of gently moving water.

“Wow,” Louis says, stepping around Harry to get a better look. “Are you really trying to tell me that you bribed some waterpark teenage employee for one attraction?”

Very deliberately, he puts some scorn into his voice so he won’t sound as impressed as he feels. All of this effort just for one slowly moving artificial body of water. 

Harry knows him, though, steps right up against Louis’ back, arms sliding around Louis’ stomach. “You need to relax,” he says into Louis’ ear, digging his thumb into Louis’ bellybutton through his shirt. Louis squeaks, slaps it away. “We’re going to float on this lazy river for as long as we want. Until you’re all pruny and can’t get the scent of chlorine out of your skin for days.”

Louis leans back into him, watching the water lick at the sides of the canal, peaceful and unbroken. “You’re not making it sound anymore appealing.”

Harry sighs into his ear. “I brought rum.”

“Well that changes everything, doesn’t it,” Louis says, elbowing his way free so he can shimmy out of his clothes, leaving them where they land. He doesn’t wait for Harry to catch up to him, wading into the water and grabbing a tube as it floats by. It doesn’t take much work to get himself settled onto it, cool water lapping at his bare skin from all sides. The trunks go luminous, darkened by the water, clearly meant to call attention to his cock. Louis rolls his eyes, letting his head flop back against the rubber of the tube.

The tube that isn’t moving properly. Louis opens his eyes again, fingers trailing in the water. Harry’s standing there, holding him still, in the waist deep water. 

“You should let me pick out your clothes all the time,” Harry says, nodding down at the trunks. His voice isn’t pitched low, echoes a bit through the empty space. He’s ogling Louis’ body, eyes running down his bare chest, about a second away from following the path of his gaze with his hand. 

Louis slaps a handful of water into Harry’s face before he can follow through on that idea. “Thought you brought me here so I could _relax_.”

“I did,” Harry says. He’s down to his swim trunks as well, towering over Louis, holding him in place. Louis’ mouth goes a little dry. “Just wanted to tell you how pretty you look first.” 

“Flatterer,” Louis says. He can’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, can’t hide it. Harry smiles back at him, dimples really showing off how proud he is of this idea, and yeah, okay, sometimes it makes sense why Louis hasn’t been able to get him out of his system for ten years.

Harry pushes him off, sending him floating gently down the river. It smells too artificial in here to remind him of the beach, but it’s nice. Just the two of them, uninterrupted. Louis trails his fingers through the water, eyes closed, and thinks about how nice it would be if they were having sex instead.

A tube bumps into his feet before Louis can get too lost in those thoughts. He cracks an eye open, watching Harry try to get close enough to hitch their tubes together without getting into the water properly. It takes him a minute, but he succeeds, grabbing Louis’ hand, lacing their fingers together. 

They float like that in silence for a while, tubes bumping against each other, water occasionally splashing onto their bodies. Harry’s grip keeps loosening, a sure sign that he’s dozing off, before he tightens it again. His fingers are wet, hard to hold onto.

“Don’t let go, Jack,” Louis murmurs, after what must be the fifteenth time. 

Harry huffs out a laugh, sliding his fingers against the inside of Louis’ wrist. “I don’t think those are the right words.”

Under any other circumstances, Louis would roll himself off the tube and faceplant dramatically into the water, flail for just long enough to make Harry save him. He’s content right now, though, floating in a waterpark Harry rented out just for him, holding Harry’s hand.

“Deal with it,” Louis says. Water splashes, enough that Harry must be moving. He doesn’t let go of Louis’ hand, and that’s enough to convince Louis to let his eyes stay closed.

Water dripping into Louis’ navel, that he can’t keep his eyes closed through. He sighs through his teeth, opening his eyes resentfully. “What.”

“Nothing,” Harry says. His teeth gleam white in the low light as they pass under a bridge. Very carefully, he scoops up another handful of water and lets it trickle through his fingers down onto Louis’ left nipple.

“You’re a child,” Louis says. The water isn’t cold enough to make him jump, but he definitely feels it. It has his nipple stiffening up, peaking in the air.

“I’m not,” Harry murmurs, rubbing his thumb across it gently, coaxing it into staying hard. Louis swallows, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of it, Harry’s big hand on his skin, touching him so casually, so possessively. “You’re really pretty, did I mention that already?”

If he keeps it up, Louis’ nipple won’t be the only thing getting hard. He inhales, shifting on the tube, resolutely closing his eyes again. “I’m going to nap now,” he announces.

There’s a minute of silence. Harry doesn’t stop rubbing at Louis’ nipple, slow, lingering strokes of his thumb. Louis grits his teeth, tells himself to keep breathing. It wasn’t his idea to wait, after all. He would have been happy with five minutes in a broom closet together. Would’ve even prepped himself first to get as much out of it as he could. Harry was the one who insisted that they’d need a bed and at least twenty-four hours.

The tube doesn’t stop moving so much as Harry pushes him out of it. Louis’ lower half lands in the water, but the rest of him stays more or less dry. Harry must have timed it exactly right. Louis ends up against the wall of the river, raft bobbing away peacefully, pressed up into it by Harry’s body.

Louis looks up at him. “I didn’t come here to get groped, you know.”

“Didn’t you?” Harry asks. His hands are in the water, filling themselves with Louis’ arse, palming him tightly. “Feels to me like you did.”

He’s a ridiculous excuse of a human being, likes pushing Louis into things way too much, hipster and obnoxious about it when he thinks it’ll make Louis irritated, wants their first time to be in a bed like he thinks Louis is a virgin who needs gentle deflowering, and Louis has never felt luckier in his entire life.

“Pays to know people sometimes, doesn’t it, Harry Styles,” Louis says conversationally, leaning back against the tile wall, wrapping a leg around Harry’s calf to tug him closer. “Bought out a waterpark for me with all your money and fame. Did you do it all yourself or did you have your people do it?”

Harry takes the invitation, crowds him closer. They could be naked so easily, already most of the way there. “Depends which answer gets me more kisses,” Harry says, sliding his hands up off Louis’ arse to feel around his hips instead, touching him aimlessly. “Are you more impressed by people who show off their wealth or romantic gestures?”

“Wealth, definitely,” Louis says, nodding. “You’re closer to being a billionaire than I am, and that’s really what I’m after.”

“Well,” Harry says, sliding his hands higher, bending his head lower, “You could always star in a soft-core film, get naked on camera. People would pay to see that.” 

Louis snorts, leaning back further, so his head is tipped backwards. If Harry wants to kiss him he’s going to have to work for it. “Just because you would pay to see me naked doesn’t mean other people would.”

Undeterred, Harry keeps leaning in, hands sliding around to Louis’ back now, wet and large. “It is my money you’re after,” he points out, all hands and hair, damp at the ends, curling from the humidity. 

“Yeah, but I could just steal your identity,” Louis says. “Seems easier.”

Harry kisses him before Louis can take the joke any further, threading an arm around the back of his neck to keep him from going anywhere, mouth hot and insistent against Louis’. Louis opens up for it, toes curling in the water. It already feels so good, deep and easy like they’ve been doing it for years. Snogging slow and breathless, letting Harry take what he wants, tongue twisting against Louis’. He’s good at it, clearly used these last ten years to get himself some experience. A sudden surge of jealousy spikes through Louis’ chest, enough to have him fumbling a hand down, squeezing it between their bodies so he can find Harry’s cock.

Laughing, Harry’s also the one who breaks the kiss, hips twisting like he can’t help the impulse to push further into Louis’ hand. “You’re a fucking menace,” he says softly, bracketing Louis in a waist high pool, and Louis squeezes him again.

“There’s a lot of things we could do other than full penetration,” Louis says, looking up at Harry through his eyelashes. Harry’s cock throbs in his hand, even through his shorts, and it’s one of the most gratifying feelings Louis has ever had.

“We could,” Harry says. It’s less of an agreement than it is an acknowledgement.

“I know that you’ve always wanted to see me down on my knees for you,” Louis continues, trying to find his way inside Harry’s shorts without untying them. It’s more complicated than it should be, especially because he’s not willing to give up the eye contact.

Harry presses him against the wall harder, which also has the effect of pushing his cock more firmly into Louis’ hand. He feels thick, heavy, even with the weightlessness of the water. “Baby,” he says, slow and thoughtless, the way he always says it, like it just comes out of his mouth, “Of course I have. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you do it right now, though.”

Louis pulls his hand away from Harry’s cock so he can punch him in the stomach instead. It’s not a hard punch, but he thinks it gets his point across. “You’re the one who interrupted my lazing time to kiss me, you wanker,” he complains anyway, just in case. He can’t feel Harry’s cock anymore, but he’d be willing to bet that it throbs again.

He’s so fucking easy sometimes. Louis has been exploiting that for the past ten years to a degree, but he’s definitely going to be doing it a whole lot more now.

“Can you blame me?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow. “You have to know what you look like right now.”

He’s really fucking easy with the compliments, too. Always has been.

“Well if you think I’m so fucking pretty I don’t understand why you won’t _do_ anything about it,” Louis says. He’s thinking about punching Harry in the stomach again. 

Like he can read the thought right on Louis’ face, Harry catches his hand, tangling their fingers together in the water. “I am going to do something about it,” Harry says. “As soon as we have more than eight uninterrupted hours and an actual bed.”

“Yesterday I fucked myself on three fingers thinking about you,” Louis says, as vicious as he can make it. “Wishing that it was your cock splitting me open instead.”

Harry groans low in his throat, letting go of Louis’ hand to haul him up, both hands under his thighs as he starts moving towards the stairs. Water sluices off their bodies, and for a few electrifying seconds it seems like Harry’s actually going to do something.

“Don’t,” Harry says. He doesn’t drop Louis down onto his feet, though, even as he climbs out of the water. Louis holds onto him tight, fingers laced against the back of Harry’s neck.

“I could suck you,” Louis says. “Know you want that, want to come down my throat. I’d do that for you. I _want_ to do that for you.”

Right at this second, he doesn’t know whether anything more truthful has ever left his mouth.

“Can you shut your unbearably pretty mouth for two minutes, please?” Harry asks. It sounds more like a demand than a question. He’s still walking like he doesn’t have to put any effort into holding Louis up, stupidly strong and attractive. 

“No,” Louis says immediately. “I want to have sex, Harry, and if you’re not going to do me properly you could at least have the decency to do me dirty.”

Harry squeezes Louis’ arse with both hands, shocking a tiny noise out of him. “It’s gonna be real fucking dirty when we do it,” he says. “Your fingers aren’t going to be able to stop trembling for at least fifteen minutes afterwards.”

That’s a promise Louis is going to hold him to. He slides his hands up and knots his fingers in Harry’s hair, yanking a little. “Prove it,” he demands, only a little breathlessly.

“I will,” Harry promises. A surge of excitement spirals throughout Louis’ entire body. He’s pretty sure that if he prods hard enough he can convince Harry to prove it right now, and they’ll both get to come. There’s a reason he’s spent the last ten years systemically wrapping Harry around his finger, and he’s pretty sure this is it.

Needless to say, it’s a complete surprise when Harry throws him into a pool. Louis emerges a few seconds later, spluttering, and almost completely forgets about holding Harry to his promises.

Almost.

Louis punches in the combination on the keypad a little harder than necessary, jabbing at the buttons with his index finger until the door swings open. He’s quick to bound up the steps and get onto the bus, a blast of cool air hitting him directly in the face. He’s only come to get a clean shirt – Stan spilled mustard on the one he’s wearing – and then he’s meant to go back into the venue to harass Calvin some more.

That’s the plan. The thing is, Harry’s the only person currently on the bus. He stayed behind as he had a Skype date scheduled with his sister, which means that now they’re the only two people on the bus.

Louis abandons his quest for a clean shirt, bypassing the bunks and heading directly to the lounge at the back. There’s noise coming from it, but it’s not the sound of Harry’s voice. It’s a tinny laugh track, probably a sitcom of some sort.

“Hi,” he says, bursting through the curtain with enthusiasm. Harry smiles, looking over at him. He’s only wearing his pants, skin otherwise bare. It’s a sight Louis is used to, but it still gets him sometimes, makes him need to pause in order to catch his breath.

Now is one of those times.

“Hi,” Harry echoes, closing his laptop. The laughter cuts off abruptly, leaving the room silent except for the low hum of the A/C. “Did you forget something?”

“No,” Louis says, pulling at the front of his shirt. “Stan spilled mustard on me so I came to change.”

Actually, that’s a good segue way into taking said shirt off. Louis does, stripping it over his head and letting it fall on the floor behind him. He kicks off his shoes as an afterthought, crossing the room so he can clamber into Harry’s lap, framing Harry’s face with both hands as he leans down to kiss him.

Harry’s hands are slow and hot as they come up to grip Louis by his sides, kissing him back, possessive and casual about it. He’s leaned back against the armrest of the sofa, all naked skin Louis can touch as much as he wants to, and Louis’ chest glows with happiness.

“Seems more like you’re taking clothes off than putting them on,” Harry points out a couple of minutes later, when he pulls away from Louis’ mouth.

Louis shrugs one shoulder, smoothing his hand across Harry’s chest, touching as much of him as he can. Harry’s skin is warm underneath his fingertips, soft. “D’you wanna have sex?”

“I do want to have sex,” Harry says, squeezing a handful of Louis’ arse. “I don’t, however, want to be walked in on by one of your mates in ten minutes when they inevitably come looking for you.”

This is probably the only time in the last four days that his refusal to put his cock in Louis has made any sort of sense. Louis sighs, curling his fingers in the baby soft hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, tugging a little. “It better end up being good,” he tells Harry matter-of-factly, “If you made me wait a week for mediocre sex I’m not going to be very pleased with you.”

“It’ll be good,” Harry promises, spreading a hand out in the center of Louis back and urging him to lean back down, kiss him again. Louis resists just enough that Harry has to put some real pressure into it, hand firm and immovable, and that’s what makes his cock start to throb. Just a bit.

Louis gives into the kiss, tongue sliding against Harry’s way too fast because Harry doesn’t believe in chaste kisses, leaning over him. He’s braced with his hands against Harry’s shoulders, preventing himself from tumbling all the way down, and he really wants to get fucked right now.

Like, so much.

“What are you going to do?” Louis asks, pulling back. His mouth feels hot and tender, not quite kiss-swollen but definitely getting there. Harry’s not wrong about someone coming to look for him in a few minutes, so Louis is going to take advantage of every second they have that’s just the two of them. “When you finally get around to having sex with me.”

“A little bit of everything,” Harry says easily, hands still pressed against Louis’ bare back. Louis’ spine tingles. “A whole lot of kissing you.”

It’s a non-answer that could rival his interview answers. Louis isn’t going to tolerate it. He pushes himself off Harry’s lap, sprawling back against the other end of the sofa, kicking his feet up onto Harry’s legs. “If you’re going to be like that I’m gonna spend this time smoking instead of letting you snog me.”

He’s only half joking. He was intended to smoke on the walk back into the venue, but he can do that just as well here as he could there. If Harry’s not going to indulge him he might as well indulge himself.

Harry’s easy, though, and just as needy as Louis is when it comes to spending time together, so he pushes himself up as well, slotting himself into place on top of Louis, flicking idly at one of his nipples. Louis can’t help the way he squirms, hips arching up to try to get some friction. He won’t be able to come, not with the way Harry’s been about waiting, but it’ll still feel good. And then he can get himself off in the loo afterwards.

“What are you going to want me to do?” Harry asks, pressing two knuckles against Louis’ side, digging them in firmly, just short of actually starting to hurt. “I have a whole list of things in my head that I want to try with you.”

A whole list, huh? Louis licks at his bottom lip quickly, trying to moisten it. “Dunno,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. 

“Sure you do,” Harry says, unconvinced. There’s a dimple tugging at his cheek, though, and it’s saying that Harry isn’t opposed to being convinced to tell Louis some of the things on that list.

“How about,” Louis starts slowly, toying with the waistband of Harry’s boxers, barely resisting the urge to peel it down so he can get his hand on Harry’s cock, “How about you tell me some of the things you think I want you to do to me?”

In this position, he can’t actually feel Harry’s cock, the weight of it, the thickness, if it twitches when Louis opens his mouth. He thinks it does, though.

“Baby,” Harry says, low and amused, and _fuck_ if that single word doesn’t shoot directly to Louis’ cock, “I know you think I’m joking when I say I’m going to do a little bit of everything, but I’m really not. I wanna taste you all over, make you come so good you see stars, fuck you until you cry and then maybe a little more after that.”

That’s a start. It’s not exactly specific, though, is it, and specificity is what Louis wants.

“Tell me,” Louis says softly, tucking his fingertips in Harry’s waistband, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “Please, Harry.”

“Tell you what?” Harry asks, wrapping his fingers around Louis’ wrist. He doesn’t pull Louis’ hand away, holding it between their bodies like he’s fighting an urge to let it go, let Louis actually take a hold of his cock despite everything he’s been saying. “Tell you that sometimes you frustrate me to the point where I want to make it hurt for you, despite knowing that’s what you want too and that it’s not actually going to solve anything? That every time you mouth off I want to put you down on your knees and make you take it? That I’m pretty sure that you know all of that and you’re constantly using it to your advantage?”

By the time he’s finished, he’s breathing fast, chest heaving as he stares down at Louis, still holding Louis’ wrist tight. Louis is hard – how could he not be? – and he wants to squirm some more, force Harry to follow through and actually put him in his place. The pace of his breathing matches Harry’s, quick and hard, and if he thought that Harry would let him he’d be trying to pull his hand out of Harry’s grasp to jerk him off.

“Yes,” Louis says, using his free hand to curl around the back of Harry’s neck and tug him down, trying to get their mouths to line up so they can kiss. “Tell me more of that, H, please.”

It doesn’t feel like Harry’s giving in when he wraps his own free hand around the back of Louis’ thigh, pulling it up to wrap around his hip, nestling their cocks together through their clothes. Louis curses himself for putting on pants this morning. It’s just another layer between them, preventing him from knowing what it would feel like if their bare cocks were pressed together.

“No,” Harry says, stopping just short of Louis’ mouth, their breath mingling in the tiny amount of space between them. “Not until you tell me some stuff, too.”

It’s so frustrating when he won’t just give in and give Louis what he wants.

“I want,” Louis says. He stops to swallow, gaze drifting down towards Harry’s mouth helplessly. “I want you to come in me.”

Harry makes a low noise in the back of his throat. The sound of it goes straight to Louis’ cock, full and aching, pressed against Harry’s through all of their layers, and he can’t stop himself from squirming a little, even though he knows it’s not going to get him anything. Harry pulls his wrist up over his head, pressing it against the arm of the couch, and then repeats the motion with the other one. It leaves Louis caught, held, and that only makes him want to struggle a bit, see how much Harry will let him get away with.

Harry doesn’t say anything else, though, staring down at Louis with heat in his eyes, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Louis is pinned down by more than just the weight of Harry on top of him, than the way Harry’s holding his wrists in one hand easily. It’s that feeling that has Louis opening his mouth again to say, “You want it so much you’ve barely even considered doing it any other way. Want to make me yours one more way, have proof that I could never be anything else.”

“I don’t need to come in you in order to prove that,” Harry says. He bends his head, but instead of kissing Louis he trails his mouth down the column of Louis’ neck, the barest hint of pressure. “You’re mine no matter what kind of sex we have.”

He’s so goddamn stubborn. Louis is reluctantly turned on by it. Or maybe that’s due to the slide of Harry’s bare skin against his, the fact that they’re both only wearing shorts. It’d be so easy to get naked right now. They wouldn’t even have to get up, probably.

“You want it like that,” Louis says, arching up into Harry’s mouth, into the hint of teeth against his collarbone. “You – _fuck_ – you want to look at it, after, see what a mess you’ve made of me. Probably want me to tattoo your name on my wrist so everyone will know – ”

He’s cut off by Harry rising up onto his knees abruptly, taking Louis’ face between his hands and kissing him, deep and insistent. This time, he doesn’t stop Louis’ hand from sliding into his pants, curling around his cock, murmuring words into Louis’ mouth between wet, biting kisses. Louis can’t tell what he’s saying, doesn’t even really care, Harry’s cock finally in his hand – 

“Jesus Christ, I really wish I hadn’t walked in on this,” Stan says. His tone is mild, and it doesn’t sound like he’s walking away.

Harry kisses him firmly one more time before he pulls away. Louis sighs, opening his eyes, but he doesn’t relinquish his grip on Harry’s cock. “Stanley,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even, “please leave before I actually murder you.”

“I would love to,” Stan says. The green of Harry’s eyes is darker than normal, pupils blown. “Except your non-platonic soulmate there promised me five hundred pounds if I helped him keep his hands off of you until Thursday, so.”

There’s a shrug in his voice. Possibly also in his shoulders, but Louis can’t tear his gaze away from Harry’s face long enough to check.

“Wow,” Louis says. He’s still holding Harry’s cock, so he gives it a friendly little squeeze, uncaring of whether Stan can see it or not. “You’re seriously bribing my mates into helping you?”

“Baby,” Harry says, a bit of a grimace on his face as he extracts Louis’ hand from his pants, like he doesn’t want to be doing it, “As much as I’d like to have faith in my own ability to keep my hands off your arse, I think time has proven that I really shouldn’t.”

Has he bribed _all_ of Louis’ mates? Louis kind of wants to know, but he has more pressing matters to attend to. Namely, his cock.

“Okay, get off me,” he says, patting Harry’s side. “If you’re not going to get me off I’m gonna go do it myself.”

Harry’s laugh is low and a little desperate as he rolls off of Louis, landing on his knees beside the couch. Louis sits up, shuffling forward until his arse is hanging half off the cushion. He links his fingers at the back of Harry’s neck, pressing a final kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, hopefully low enough that Stan won’t be able to hear, “I’ll be thinking of you when I’m fucking myself on three fingers.”

It takes a lot of effort to get up and make his exit with Harry still kneeling there, but Louis manages. He does find a nice, quiet place to have a wank in, but he doesn’t fuck himself. He forgot to grab the lube in his hasty exit.

On the day of their pre-arranged sex-date, they’re both anxious and jittery. Harry keeps crowding Louis into corners to kiss him and remind him, breathless, that tonight is the night, as though he thinks there’s any way Louis could have forgotten. They can’t stop touching each other, fingers lingering on each other’s bare skin as they pass, as they walk, whenever the opportunity arises. It’s not doing anything to lessen the anticipation, but Louis doesn’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.

By the time the show rolls around that night, Louis is more than ready for it to be over. It’s an unfair thought to be having, to the audience, to all the people on the crew who work so hard to ensure that everything goes smoothly. He can’t help it, though, and on the plus side, some of his nervous energy gets burned off running around on stage, so it’s not all bad.

Harry’s not there after the show. Alberto tells Louis this with a little grimace on his face that says exactly how much he knows about _why_ Harry isn’t there. Louis calls upon years of media training to school his face into something unremarkable, nods, and then goes to take a shower. It’s the most obvious thing he could have done, but he doesn’t care, not really. Not when tonight’s the night.

Anticipation is like a warm buzz in his veins during the ride to the hotel. It’s early, still, or at least early by touring standards, and he has the next thirty-six hours off. Nothing is scheduled until the show the day after tomorrow.

The boys are with him in the lift, being rowdy and loud. Louis can’t pay much attention to them, fingers shaking so much he has to tuck them into his pockets to hide it. He goes to step out after them when the lift comes to a stop, doors open, only to get pulled back inside gently by Alberto, who just shakes his head when Louis looks at him.

They go up another three floors before the lift stops again. Louis follows Alberto out, down the hallway, and gets let into a room that isn’t part of the block they’d booked. He steps inside, closes the door behind him and locks it before he lets himself look.

Candles are scattered everywhere, soft light flickering off their wicks. They’re unscented, mostly, although Louis thinks he catches a whiff of vanilla coming from somewhere. All the actual lights are off, bathing the room in a soft glow. Harry’s standing in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, wearing jeans and the Ramones t-shirt Louis bought him. His feet are bare.

Honestly, Louis is kind of surprised he’s not entirely naked.

“Are you going to sacrifice me to some pagan god or something?”

There are a lot of candles in here. Louis is just saying.

The room is too big to be just that. It must be a suite, has double doors leading to somewhere. It’s a little intimidating, how much thought Harry put into this.

“You look amazing,” Harry says, ignoring Louis’ concern. He sounds a little helpless as he says it, still standing in the middle of the room, rocking back on his heels.

Louis picked out these clothes especially for him. He glances down at himself, taking in the jeans – his best ones, the ones that frame his arse just right – and the blazer, properly fitted, black, and a glimpse of the shirt. It’s one of Harry’s, silky and white, almost sheer, tucked into his jeans, and it has Styles embroidered in tiny script over the top left collarbone. He took the time to do his hair before leaving the venue, despite knowing that Harry’s hands are going to mess it up in no time, and he knows what he looks like. Knows the parts of his body these particular clothes frame, making him look small and put together, and he doesn’t mind. 

“Thank you,” Louis says, taking a couple steps towards him. “You’re not going to ritual murder me, right? There’s a lot of candles in here.”

“This,” Harry says, sweeping a hand out to gesture towards the room, “is _romance_ , Louis Tomlinson.” He’s still wearing all of his jewelry, a million rings and his necklace, might even have a bracelet or two on. He got ready for this night just like Louis did, put on the t-shirt Louis bought him because he knows what Louis likes just as much as Louis knows what Harry likes.

“It’s dead romantic,” Louis agrees, stepping closer. “I definitely don’t feel like I’m about to be sacrificed at all.”

Like he’s been shocked into it, Harry starts moving too, coming towards Louis much faster than Louis had been walking. They’re on a collision course, one that’ll hurt if they actually make contact, and Louis doesn’t _care_. He’s been waiting too long for this already.

“I’m gonna wait until after the sex at least,” Harry says, holding his hands out and grabbing Louis as soon as he’s close enough, pulling him in those last few inches so their bodies come together. “You’re wearing my shirt.” 

He fingers the collar of it like he’s making a point, like maybe Louis isn’t aware of what he’s wearing, like he thinks Louis put it on for any other purpose than making Harry’s cock hard. Louis clears his throat, tipping his head up so he can see Harry’s face. “Prove it.”

Harry’s eyes flick back to Louis’ face. “It literally has my name on it.” 

He looks unwillingly amused, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s not the first time Louis has been in this position, arousal hanging thick in the air between them, unable to stop himself from trying to goad Harry into something. There’s no stopping it this time, though – Harry rented an entire _suite_ for him, three floors away from everyone else, bought a million candles, throwing a ridiculous amount of money away for a single night, and Louis is going to let him do pretty much whatever he wants.

“Like you’re the only person in the entire world with the name Styles,” Louis scoffs. Their height difference is a little less noticeable when Louis is wearing shoes and Harry isn’t. “Full of yourself tonight, aren’t you.”

“Baby,” Harry murmurs, sliding both his hands underneath Louis’ blazer, stroking slowly down his sides before settling on his hips, gripping lightly. “Baby, as much as I love it when you do this, I need to tell you something.”

Do what, Louis thinks. All he’s doing is calling Harry out on his shit. Someone has to do it. There’s entirely too many people in the world who think Harry’s some kind of sex god when he’s really just a massive dork who’s been obsessed with Louis since he was sixteen.

“What?” he demands, suspicious. If Harry says something stupid Louis is going to slap him in the dick, regardless of the fact that he plans on using it very soon.

“I love you,” Harry tells him, and kisses the outraged retort right out of Louis’ mouth. Louis squirms, thinks about shoving him off, but Harry kisses like there’s nothing he wants more in the world than to be doing it, kissing Louis in the middle of this hotel room.

If it was anyone else, Louis might be a little embarrassed by how needy it makes him. It’s Harry, though, Harry who knows him better than anyone else in the world, Harry who waited ten years for this, so Louis just lets his head tip to the exact right angle, lets Harry kiss him like he’s starving for it. Kisses back, winding his arms around Harry’s neck. Has to arch up onto his toes a bit in the process, mildly resentful of the way Harry won’t bend to meet him. He’s so stubborn, always has to get what he wants, and Louis is standing here wearing his shirt.

“Don’t you want to say it back?” Harry asks, mouthing his way across Louis’ jaw, hands suddenly on Louis’ arse, squeezing, before they slide down further to wrap around Louis’ thighs and pull him up off the ground. Louis pulls in a half-shocked breath, clutching at Harry’s neck, having to trust that Harry won’t drop him.

“No,” Louis says, shaking his head slowly, squirming in Harry’s arms. He’s been half hard since he was told Harry wasn’t there after the show, could barely keep from touching himself in the shower. He didn’t entirely succeed, fingered himself a little. Just to make sure he was clean, of course. No other reason.

He’s fully hard now, cock trapped in his jeans, arching his hips up to press against Harry’s abdomen because he can’t help himself.

“Why not,” Harry says, less of a question than it should be. Vaguely, Louis is aware that they’re moving, that Harry’s supporting all of his weight. “You show up looking like this and you don’t want to tell me you love me?”

Louis’ back hits a bed before he even realizes he’s being tossed onto it. Harry stands above him, looking at him, not making any move to join him. “Looking like what?” Louis asks, squirming so his arm is beneath his head, looking up at Harry from under his eyelashes. His shoes are on the bed, but that’s not his fault so he doesn’t toe them off.

“That’s the important part of that statement to you?” Harry asks. He drops to his knees beside the bed, putting his hand flat on Louis’ stomach, over the shirt. Over his own shirt that Louis stole from him. “That I think you’re stupidly attractive?”

Heat flushes its way through Louis’ chest. He turns onto his side, shifting as close to the edge of the bed as he can get without falling off and grabs at the front of Harry’s shirt. “You make me happy,” he whispers. It’s not the same as _I love you_ , but it has the same affect. The curve of Harry’s smile is slow, devastating, and his hand moves up from its spot on Louis’ ribcage to curl around the side of his neck instead.

“You make me crazy, sometimes,” Harry says, stroking his thumb along Louis’ throat. “All the things I’ve thought about doing to you.”

“Like what?” Louis asks. If he gets any closer to the edge of the bed he’s going to be hanging off of it.

Harry hasn’t stopped looking at him, gaze heavy, piercing. “I have ten years of fantasies I could tell you about,” he says. “Do they really matter right now?” He leans forward, trying to catch Louis’ mouth for a kiss.

Louis pulls back, just enough that the kiss lands on his jaw instead. He feels more than he hears Harry’s sigh, the way Harry doesn’t pull back at all, mouth still pressed against Louis’ skin. “They do if they’re weird. I’m not doing weird sex stuff with you, Harry.”

It’s the kind of statement that might be a lie. Maybe. Louis could probably be coaxed into a lot of things if it was Harry doing the coaxing. He knows that about himself. He thinks Harry probably knows it too.

“They’re not weird,” Harry says. He stops to consider. “You’re okay with me being a furry, right?”

Louis’ laugh is too loud, unattractive. It only turns the look on Harry’s face softer, fonder. He tugs at his handful of Harry’s shirt, trying to urge him up onto the bed. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Harry takes the hint, climbing up over Louis, to the other side of him, lying down on his side and pulling Louis towards him. “I’m not joking. I’m being really serious right now, baby.”

Jesus, he’s so fucking weird. Louis has always been reluctantly charmed by it, and now is no exception. It’s detrimental to his sanity, sometimes.

“I love you,” he says, tipping his head up so he’s looking at Harry’s face. Watches the way his smile spreads, lighting up his face, bringing out his dimples.

“Baby,” Harry croons, nudging Louis over until he’s lying on his back, pulling himself up over him. Louis spreads his thighs, gives Harry the room. “Baby, I love you too.”

Happiness is bubbling in Louis’ chest, threatening to take over everything else. It feels a little weird, if only because he doesn’t have to be careful about it anymore. Can let himself really _feel_ it.

It’s as good an excuse as any to kiss Harry, arching up off the bed to make their mouths meet somewhere in the middle. The position reminds him of all the times Harry’s pressed him up against a wall somewhere and watched Louis’ mouth like he was having a really hard time remembering why kissing wasn’t a thing they did. That happiness is still burning bright in his chest, but it’s diluted with arousal now, distracting from it a bit. Nothing’s ever felt as good as this does, Louis is pretty sure, even as Harry presses him back against the bed, holding him there, holding him down. He kisses like he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the night doing just that, and as mellowing as that thought is, Louis came here with the intention of getting laid, and he’s going to get what he came for.

“You should probably do something about this,” Louis says, turning his head to the side so Harry’s mouth goes sliding across his jawline, tugging at the hem of Harry’s shirt. Harry hums, distracted by sucking a mark into Louis’ skin, ignoring the statement altogether.

Louis huffs, tugging harder. “Harry,” he complains, knows he’s whining even as he says it. He doesn’t understand why Harry’s still wearing clothes at all. Normally he takes them off without the slightest provocation. 

“God, you’re needy,” Harry says into his throat. He sounds so fucking pleased about it. It’s the only reason Louis doesn’t bristle at it, sliding both of his hands underneath Harry’s shirt to get at his skin. “You wanna be naked together?”

Yes, that’s what Louis has been _saying_. He doesn’t understand how he could have been any clearer about it.

Harry kisses him again before Louis can get that out, but he’s undoing the button on his jeans at the same time, so Louis supposes he can forgive him. He gets out of them easily, without having to detach himself from Louis’ mouth. It’s a skill Louis is vaguely envious of. He might be more envious if Harry wasn’t still kissing him like that, with slow, sweeping flicks of his tongue against Louis’, hot and tender. It’s distracting, makes heat flow through his entire body, centering in the pit of his stomach.

He does have to break the kiss to pull his shirt off over his head, pulling Louis’ jeans and pants down in almost the same movement. He gets a little stuck when he realizes Louis’ still wearing his shoes, has to pull them off along with his socks. It leaves him wearing only Harry’s shirt, so close to naked that it almost feels like he is.

Harry doesn’t even take a second to look at him before he’s curling back in to get at Louis’ mouth, kissing him deeper now, wetter. He’s down to his boxers, but it’s not what Louis asked for, even if he is sliding his hands underneath the shirt to clutch at Louis’ sides, holding him still.

Louis didn’t think it would come down to this, not with Harry, but he’ll do what he has to in order to get what he needs. He squirms his way out from underneath Harry’s body, pushing Harry flat against the bed so he can climb on top of him. The shirt rucks up around his thighs, exposing him to the cool air of the room, to Harry’s gaze. And Harry is looking, finally, putting his hands on Louis’ thighs and spreading them just a little more, helping him settle down in Harry’s lap, right where he can feel the hard line of Harry’s cock against his bare arse. It’s not skin against skin, not yet, but it feels so good Louis has to suck in a deep breath anyway, reminding himself to breathe.

“Baby,” Harry murmurs, slow and deep, laid back against the pillows like he’s perfectly comfortable letting Louis take the lead, like he’s not the one who has an all-encompassing need to press Louis between his body and walls, to cage him in places. “You – ”

“Tell me the most common one,” Louis interrupts. At Harry’s raised eyebrow, he elaborates, “The most common thing you thought about when you were trying to get off. When it had been a long day and you just wanted to come so you could get some sleep. The thing that never failed to get you off quickly.”

Harry’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. His hands settle around Louis’ hips, holding him steady as he rocks up against him slowly. The unmistakable press of his cock becomes even more apparent, full and thick. Louis doesn’t even try to stop the way he grinds down against it.

“It’s changed over the years,” Harry says, the words coming out of him as slow as the rock of his hips. “You do a lot of things that turn me on. I’m not even sure that you know you’re doing them half the time.”

Actually, Louis is pretty sure that he does most of them intentionally. Harry’s always been ridiculously easy to get riled up. “Are you refusing to tell me because it’s really strange?”

Harry rolls his eyes, pinching at Louis’ side. “No,” he says. “I’m just a little distracted by the fact that your naked arse is literally on top of my cock.”

It is kind of distracting, Louis will admit. He’s starting to feel the strain in his thighs from how wide they’re spread, a dull, pleasant ache that doesn’t do anything to take away from the more urgent ache of his cock. He already wants to come and they’ve barely gotten started.

“So tell me then,” Louis insists. It would be too easy to forget about the question altogether, let Harry talk him out of the need to know, at least for now. He’s not going to do that, though. He’s already so easy for Harry, the last thing he needs to be doing is letting him do things like that.

“Do you remember,” Harry starts, so slow Louis might actually cry, “during the last tour, all those water fights you used to get into with Liam? There was this one in Glasgow, I think, where you just ended up completely drenched, all of your clothes sticking to you. You kept throwing things, being such a fucking brat, I had to keep walking away so I wouldn’t fuck you onstage with sixty thousand people watching.”

Louis comes to an abrupt halt, stilling on top of Harry, staring down at him. “That’s all it is?” he demands. “All the dirty things you could have been fantasizing about doing to me and you pick the one that was actually the most likely to happen?”

It wouldn’t have actually happened. Recent slip-up aside, Louis doesn’t actually do things onstage that are going to get him in actual shit, much less arrested for having sex in public. He would have let Harry do him backstage, though, probably even the second they got rid of their mic packs in a hallway somewhere where one of the crew could have seen them. 

If Harry had have pushed for it, that is. And Louis is pretty sure that the only reason Harry never did is because he knew Louis would let him.

Harry’s hands slip away from his hips, finally settling on his arse and squeezing gently. Louis doesn’t let out a hiss of breath, but he wants to. “You were so wet you were dripping,” Harry says. “You’d been more combative than normal that night, kept trying to get underneath everyone’s skin, and I kept thinking about how rough it would get, how you’d wake up with blood underneath your nails from the way you kept clutching at me, how it’d be obvious to everyone just how good it was from the way you were walking the next day.”

For a minute, Louis nearly forgets how to breathe, staring down at Harry, at the tiniest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and thinks _how long did you know you were going to say that for_.

It’s not a coincidence, that Harry let him get on top so easily. It had seemed a little strange right from the beginning, but Louis had been too distracted to think it through. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Harry doesn’t let him get away with things so much as he nudges Louis into doing them in a way that pleases him. Louis has spent a long time trying not to think about it, because thinking about it always made him flush deep in the chest, entire body warm and tingling from it. The way Harry knows things about him, things that other people have only guessed at, it’s – 

“You think you could give it to me that good?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow. It’s a slow response, much slower than he would normally be, and the smirk on Harry’s face says he knows exactly why that is.

“You really wanna know what I think?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow right back. He slides one hand down Louis’ arsecheek, warm and heavy, not at all hesitant about it as his fingers slip in between, stroking down the middle. “I think we wouldn’t be here right now if _you_ didn’t think I could give it to you that good.”

Two fingers ghost over Louis’ hole, a feather light touch that has him clenching up around nothing. He bites back a noise, but he doesn’t quite manage to stop the way his hips shift down, trying to get more of that touch. 

He’s lost the upper hand so fast he almost doesn’t know how it happened. He really only has one card left to play and no time left to draw it out, so he plunges his hand down, into Harry’s pants, and gets a hold of his cock.

The hand Harry’s not using to tease him comes around to grab a hold of Louis’ wrist, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. Just stills it, fingers strong and tight around Louis’ flesh. “No matter what the picture was that got me off, they always had one thing in common,” he says, pausing just long enough to ensure that he has Louis’ full attention. “You always wanted it so goddamn bad, and you only wanted it from me.” 

He’s not wrong. Louis surges down and kisses him, biting at Harry’s mouth, helpless not to. Harry barely lets him get away with it at all, kissing back for a split second before he’s rolling them over so he’s back on top.

Louis’ entire chest clenches as he does it, tight and happy. He loses his grip on Harry’s cock in the process, knuckles pressing into his hip. They pull away from the kiss at the same time, freeing up Louis’ mouth so he can complain, “You’re so fucking cocky.”

“I just know you,” Harry says, squeezing the outside of Louis’ thigh with one hand, encouraging him to pull it up a little higher. Louis does, but only because it makes their cocks slide together in a way that’s entirely too distracting. “I know the things you like.”

“You don’t know anything,” Louis huffs. It’s hard to concentrate when Harry’s working his hips like that, slow grinds that are more teasing than anything.

Harry pulls back a little, eyes narrowing in a way that says he’s taken it as a challenge. “I don’t?” he asks, mouth wet. “Should I just go, then?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, even though that’s not the direction of the door.

Instinctively, Louis’ thighs tighten, clamping down around Harry’s hips even though he knows Harry’s not actually going to go anywhere. “You could just fuck off,” he offers sweetly. 

“Think I’m gonna fuck you, instead,” Harry says, bending his head back down. Louis is expecting another kiss. What he gets is teeth against his throat, sharp enough that his laugh is startled into a moan. Harry sucks a bruise into his skin, deep and dark enough that there’ll be no covering it up in the morning.

It must have been Louis laughing at his stupid joke that makes Harry move a little faster, flicking open the buttons on Louis’ shirt with one hand. He doesn’t spend too long marking up Louis’ throat, mouth following the path his hand is taking, leaving a wet trail in his wake as he exposes more of Louis’ skin. He’s gentle about it, tender, even, right up until he gets to Louis’ nipples, then he bites, shockingly hard.

“Ow, fuck,” Louis says, jerking under Harry’s hands, but there’s no denying the way his cock is dripping from it, making his belly wet and messy.

“S’hurt?” Harry asks, glancing up. He licks over the mark he’s made, tongue dragging hot and wet. Louis grits his teeth against a moan, swallowing hard.

“Yes,” he says honestly. He lets his head fall back against the pillow, staring up at the shadows flickering across the ceiling. Purposefully, he holds back the fact that the flicker of pain isn’t a bad thing.

Harry hums, the vibrations threatening to shatter Louis’ entire chest apart from how much he wants it, and laves his tongue over the spot once more. “Do you want it to hurt more?”

The question makes Louis’ entire body throb, thighs clenching around Harry’s hips. He swallows the noise that wants to escape his mouth, squeezing his eyes closed and throwing his forearm over them for good measure. Sinks his teeth into his own bottom lip and tries not to squirm too obviously as he thinks about how he should answer.

Harry presses another kiss to Louis’ nipple, just the one, close-mouthed and soft, before his breath is hitting Louis’ cheek. He doesn’t try to pull Louis’ arm away from his face, tugging at his bottom lip with two fingers until Louis lets it slide out from between his teeth.

“I’ve known you for a long fucking time, baby,” Harry says. His voice is quiet, commanding. Louis swallows, listening, all too aware of Harry’s eyes fixed on his face even though he can’t see them. “You know I’d move heaven and hell to give you everything you want, but this is something I need you to tell me that you want or I’m not going to do it.”

Slowly, Louis lets his arm slide off his face and onto the pillow, looking up at Harry. “You know how sometimes you get so irritated with me that all the veins in your wrist stand out from how hard you’re clenching your fist?” he asks. “I do that on purpose.”

“I know,” Harry says. He looks like he’s unwillingly amused, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Subtlety isn’t exactly your strong suit.”

He puts a hand underneath Louis’ knee, dragging his thigh up so their hips fit tighter together. He’s just as hard now as he was when Louis had his fingers wrapped around his cock, and that’s emboldening, somehow.

“I do it because I can’t stop thinking about how hard you would spank me if you ever lost control for a second,” Louis says. He presses two fingers to the center of Harry’s chest, feels how hard it’s heaving. “Whether you’d mean it to be a punishment or a reward.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. He’s holding himself up on one elbow, looking down at Louis’ face, and Louis has never felt smaller or more powerful. “I know that too.”

Other people don’t see him like this. The general public especially. Everyone thinks he’s so kind, so gentle, and he _is_ , a lot of the time. Even the people who do actually know him, who know that he’s sarcastic and impatient and capable of being hilariously rude sometimes don’t know that he’s like this, too. That there’s a part of him that wants to get Louis between his teeth and chew until he’s all used up. 

He’s fucking feral sometimes, that’s what Louis is saying.

“I also know that that’s not actually an answer to my question,” Harry continues. “Yes or no, baby.”

“Yes,” Louis says, and after ten years, it feels like it comes out effortlessly. Flawlessly.

Harry’s mouth is against his before the word has even finished leaving Louis’ tongue, deep and wet and insistent. They kiss until Louis’ tongue is tired, jaw sore, and he can’t ignore his cock anymore.

“C’mon,” he says, turning his head to the side to take in some air. “We only have thirty-six hours, at this rate you’re not even going to make me come once before we have to leave this hotel.”

Harry pinches his nipple again, fast and sharp. “I’m going to take as much time as I want,” he says, “and you’re going to take it for as long as I want to give it to you.”

Louis opens his mouth to protest, despite the way his belly is squirming in anticipation, words on the tip of his tongue that are mostly berating. Harry cuts him off before he can get a single word out, laying his hand back over Louis’ throat and squeezing so gently Louis barely feels it.

His mouth clicks closed again. He swallows, gazing up into Harry’s face.

“You’re also going to take that spanking,” Harry murmurs. “Think you owe me that much after how much time you’ve spent teasing me, don’t you, baby?”

A wave of heat crashes through Louis’ entire body, overwhelming. He can barely breathe, and it has nothing to do with the weight of Harry’s hand on his throat. Suddenly, his lips feel dry, cracked. He licks at them, tongue flicking out between his teeth as he tries to think.

“You gonna tell me no?” Harry asks. The pressure of his hand eases as he slides it around to cup the back of Louis’ neck instead, soft and soothing. It helps Louis think a little more clearly. “You gonna tell me no and mean it?”

Louis wants it. God, he fucking wants it so badly he feels like he can taste it, sharp and almost acidic in the back of his throat, pure desire clawing its way up from his stomach.

“I’m gonna tell you no,” Louis says, forcing his gaze up to meet Harry’s. “I’m probably not gonna mean it, though.”

It’s as simple as he can make it when all the blood in his body is trying to force its way to his cock.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry says, low and self-satisfied. “Tell me the word you’re going to say when you actually mean no.”

Most of Louis wants to spit out _kiwi_ , just to see the reaction he’ll get. Anticipation curls like smoke in his stomach as he considers how much harder his spanking would be if he said it. Pushing Harry’s buttons has always been his specialty, and he knows that saying it now would be like pounding them all at once.

“Legume,” Louis says instead. Turns out he does have some sort of self-preservation.

“Legume?” Harry repeats, raising an eyebrow. “You’re going to remember that when you’re so turned on you’re crying?”

He doesn’t say it mockingly. He says it like someone who knows Louis well enough to be able to guess what he’s like when the sex is really good. He says it like someone who’s too cocky for their own good.

Louis supposes he’ll be able to forgive him for that if it turns out that he’s actually that good.

“I take it back,” Louis says, and starts to struggle, trying to get out from underneath Harry’s body. “I don’t want to have sex with you anymore.”

The ease Harry pins him down again with is really something else. Louis flops back down against the mattress with an annoyed huff, trying to fold his arms across his chest. He can’t really manage. Harry’s too close to be able to do it.

“I’m going to assume that you’re being difficult for the sake of being difficult,” Harry says, and then flips Louis over so fast he doesn’t have a chance to decide whether he wants to struggle or not. He ends up with his face pressed into a pillow, arse only a little elevated. “And that if you actually want me to stop you’re going to say your word.”

He doesn’t do anything after saying it, though, aside from pushing Louis’ shirt up his back to expose more of his skin. Louis is mostly naked, exposed to Harry’s hungry gaze, and he doesn’t feel at all self-conscious about it. He wiggles a little, trying to see how much Harry is willing to let him move.

It turns out that it’s not much. Harry presses him back down flat against the mattress, but he still doesn’t do anything. He’s just looking, and as much as Louis likes it when Harry looks at him, he wants more than that.

“I will,” Louis says, pushing himself up onto his elbows and looking at Harry over his shoulder. “Don’t think I’m going to end up needing it, though. Have I ever told you how much of a pushover you are? Because you really are, always giving into – ”

Harry shoves him back down so he’s flat against the mattress again. His hands are big against Louis’ skin, warm. “Be quiet,” he says, bending down to mouth the words directly against Louis’ ear. Louis shivers and goes silent, goosebumps prickling up his spine. There’s a weird few seconds where he can feel Harry moving but can’t figure out what he’s doing. He’s definitely not getting spanked, he knows that much.

Metal clinks against the bedside table as Harry stretches over him. Louis turns his head, following the strong line of Harry’s arm as he deposits his rings onto the surface. It’s a simple action, but it’s one full of intent, and for a second Louis doesn’t know whether he’s breathing or not. His gaze is fixed on the rings, neatly arranged into a small pile in the middle of the table, and he doesn’t know that the first slap is coming until it’s already landed, sharp and stinging.

“Oh,” Louis breathes out, fingers curling around the edge of a pillow. His skin blooms with heat in the shape of Harry’s hand, covering nearly all of his arsecheek. His cock throbs, thick and urgent where it’s pressed up against the bed.

Harry doesn’t waste any time before giving him another, laid out almost exactly overtop of the first one. It hurts in a way that’s undeniable, sharp and throbbing, and all of it goes straight to Louis’ head.

“Wanted to do this to you so many times over the years,” Harry says, confessing it so quietly Louis can’t tell whether he’s meant to hear it or not. He stops to rub at Louis’ hot skin, massaging him for a second before he spanks him again, harder this time, still on the same spot. “Every time you were being a brat on purpose, trying to get my attention like you thought there was some way I could ever pay attention to anything other than you.”

He switches to the other side, hand big and heavy and hot. Louis squeezes his eyes closed and shoves his knuckles into his mouth, sinking his teeth into his own skin. Harry settles into a rhythm Louis can’t get a grasp on, head spinning too fast to be able to make it out, so each slap comes as a surprise, forcing noises out of him. He’s so hard, cock trapped against the sheets, friction almost painful as his hips jerk with every slap.

He’s never had this before. Not like this, at least. A couple of playful spanks here and there with various guys, maybe, but it’s never been like this. Never so intentional, so thought out. Harry knew he was going to do this before Louis even walked into the room, and that knowledge makes him even harder.

“So easy for it, baby, aren’t you?” Harry asks. His voice is low and sweet, soothing all of the sore places he’s making on Louis’ body. “Know what you deserve and that you can trust me to give it to you.”

The noise Louis makes in response is raw and ugly. He can’t bite his lips fast enough to keep it in, rocking down harder against the mattress. The friction of the sheets against his cock burns, and combined with the sharp ache of Harry’s hand coming down on his arse again, Louis can’t take it anymore. He comes, gasping into the pillow, thighs shaking as he rides through it. 

Harry squeezes his arse, both hands against Louis’ hot skin. Louis makes another noise, so much whinier when he’s not in control enough to realize how he sounds, and squirms, rucking up the sheets underneath him. He squeezes his fingers into his palms tightly for a few seconds before he lets go, opening his eyes.

His arse throbs. The way Harry’s touching him isn’t helping. Or maybe it is. Louis’ cock can’t quite decide.

“I trust you,” he murmurs. His head feels fuzzy, and it takes a lot of effort to turn over, but he manages. Barely even registers the wet smear of his own come sliding across his back as he does.

Harry’s smiling at him, dimples and everything, looking way too put together for someone who hasn’t come yet. “Well, I hope so,” he says, putting his hand flat against Louis’ belly, fingertips rough from his guitar callouses. “You did just let me spank you into an orgasm, after all.”

The way he smiles has always been unfair. It sends a flush through Louis’ entire body now, even though he’s just come, and that reminds him that he wanted to get fucked. That he came here with the express intention of getting fucked.

“Said you were going to fuck me,” he says. Harry’s kneeling at his side, mattress dipped underneath his weight, making Louis turn into him. His cock is tenting his briefs, thick and obvious, and Louis can’t stop looking at it even if it seems like Harry doesn’t notice it.

“I know,” Harry answers like it was a question, laying down on his side and pulling Louis into him, running a heavy hand up his side, on the inside of the shirt Louis is still wearing. It’s gone tacky with sweat, scrunched up under his back, sticking to his arms. It should feel disgusting.

It doesn’t. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that it’s got Harry’s name written on it.

“Thought you deserved a spanking more,” Harry continues. He’s watching Louis’ mouth, the way he breathes with his lips parted. Louis doesn’t have the energy to make a show of it, tucking his hand under Harry’s arm and watching him watch him. “All the shit you’ve put me through over the years.”

That was nothing like a punishment. That wasn’t even in the same _realm_ as a punishment. Harry has to know that.

“You complaining?” Louis asks. Harry’s warm, blasting heat like a furnace, and if he rolled over right now, let Louis get on top of him and sink down onto his cock slow and easy, it might feel like burning up from the inside out.

Louis isn’t opposed to feeling like that. He doesn’t think Harry’s going to let their first time be so tender, though. Not with the way he’s already made it hurt.

“Never,” Harry promises. “Got a lot to make you apologize for, though.”

Like Louis is going to apologize for any of it. Not when it gets him results like this. Still, his cock throbs weakly at the statement. It wouldn’t take much to get him hard again, and then Harry could finally fuck him.

“Want me to apologize by sucking your cock?” Louis looks down between their bodies slowly, then back up at Harry’s face from underneath his eyelashes. He knows what he must look like, sweat damp skin, face flushed, the smell of sex already lingering in the air. He knows that Harry’s imagining what he would look like with Harry’s cock down his throat.

“Not tonight, baby,” Harry says, crushing the fantasy before it can start building up in Louis’ head. “Is your arse sore?”

The way he says it is so blunt, a hint of smugness hiding behind the question. Louis shifts, pressing his knee against Harry’s. “Not as sore as it could be.”

Not as sore as he’s going to be after Harry fucks him. Harry does gentle very well, but there’s no way he’s going to be gentle when he’s got his cock in Louis’ arse bare. Louis is already relishing the thought of waking up still sore and open.

“Don’t be cheeky with me, sweetheart,” Harry says. The curve of his smile ruins any seriousness he might have had. It feels good when he fits their mouths back together, pressing Louis’ back down flat against the mattress, sliding back on top of him. He intercepts the nipple pinch Louis tries to give him without having to look, tangling their fingers together above Louis head. The kiss is slow and sweet, tongues dancing around each other. Louis’ cock is already halfway hard again.

Harry keeps their fingers laced together as he kisses his way down Louis’ neck, taking time to suck a bruise into his skin every so often. Louis gasps at every one, trying to jerk away from it and then up into it in equal measure, fingers flexing against Harry’s hand. He can’t pull away from any of it, caught under Harry’s body, in his grip.

The kisses make their way down Louis’ chest, until they reach his nipple, and then Harry bites him, for real this time, teeth sharp against his skin. Louis cries out, body twisting, his free hand flying to grip at Harry’s hip. His cock throbs again, harder this time, full and aching.

“Please,” he whispers. It must have been what Harry was waiting for. He bites down again before he starts sucking instead, laving his tongue in small circles around Louis’ nipple. “Harry, please – ”

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. He doesn’t want Harry to stop. It hurts, but it hurts so good Louis has to blink the wetness out of his eyes, try to breathe through the catch in his throat. No matter what he does, he can’t stop himself from whimpering, spreading his thighs around Harry’s hips, trying to give him more room to work with.

“Shh,” Harry murmurs into Louis’ skin, kissing him gently. “You’re fine, baby, right?”

He switches sides, biting at Louis’ other nipple before he can answer. Louis gasps, knees clamping down against Harry’s hips. He can’t answer, can’t make his mouth form words, can only close his eyes against the wave of pain that shoots directly to his cock.

Harry’s mouth leaves his skin. Louis doesn’t know whether the tears gathering in his eyes are from relief or disappointment.

“Louis,” Harry says firmly, pinching Louis’ right nipple between his fingers. Louis’ mouth opens, but no sound comes out. “Are you okay?”

“Fuck me,” Louis says. His voice sounds weak, thin and thready. “Please, Harry.”

Harry lets go. Blood comes rushing back so fast Louis gets a little dizzy from it. It shouldn’t be possible, that this one small area is turning him on so much. “That’s not what I asked you. Don’t you want to be good for me, answer my questions properly?”

That’s all Louis wants. 

“I’m good,” Louis says, reaching out to touch Harry’s face, fingers nudging at the underside of his jaw. “I’m happy.”

It’s not exactly what Harry was asking him for. Louis thinks it’s better.

“Me too,” Harry whispers back. For some reason, it sounds like a promise. “You’re so fucking beautiful.

Somehow, Louis flushes even hotter. He’s used to the way Harry compliments him, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever really get over it. “Thank you,” he says, purely because Harry’s weird and he gets turned on by manners, “Can you fuck me now?”

“We have all night,” Harry says, sliding his hand down Louis’ belly until he can grope at his cock, circling it with his fingers. Louis arches up into the pressure, helpless not to. “I’m not going to let you rush me about this.”

“I’m not rushing you,” Louis explains, pinching at Harry’s cheek. “I just feel so empty right now, and I think having your cock in me is really going to help with that.”

It’s not even a lie. His arse is still sore and hot against the sheets, and various parts of him are throbbing where Harry’s mouth has left a mark, but Louis wants to get fucked. Been wanting it even more than normal for the last two weeks, and knowing that he’s going to get it isn’t doing anything to help how much he wants it right at this very second.

“I’m gonna fuck you, baby,” Harry promises. “I’m just gonna do this for a while, first.”

He ducks down and sucks Louis’ cock into his mouth. It’s all hot, wet pressure, so good that all Louis can do in breathe in sharply, head falling back against the pillow, fingers curling into his palms. For a second he can’t think, can only focus on how good it feels. His toes curl against the sheets, hips moving restlessly, arching up until Harry uses one hand to pin him back down.

“Fuck,” Louis says, voice cracking in the middle of the word. His fingers slide into Harry’s hair, the strands soft and silky as they slide against his skin. Everything is hazy, pleasure floating through his entire body. Harry’s mouth is soft and hot, tongue laving over the head of Louis’ cock, and Louis was already fully hard before. He doesn’t even know what he is now. Melting, maybe.

As good as it is, it’s teasing. Harry doesn’t slide any further down, sucking only at Louis’ cockhead, tongue dragging slow, obscene patterns, so similar to the way he talks that it would make Louis laugh if he had enough breath left in his lungs. It feels so good, it does, but it’s not meant to get him off. Louis wouldn’t be teasing like this if he were the one in charge. The fact that he’s not just makes his cock throb harder. Arousal is pooled in his belly, thick and cloying, overtaking all of his senses. Given enough time, he could probably come from this.

He doesn’t want to come from this. He wants to come from Harry’s cock inside of him. He’s fantasized about it for long enough that nothing else will do.

“H,” Louis says. His voice is weak, and he has to stop to swallow the rush of saliva that floods his mouth when Harry digs his fingers into his side, nails pressing marks into his skin. “Please.”

Harry pulls off, leaving Louis’ cock spit slick and wet, aching for more. “You have a really pretty cock, baby,” he says, dragging his thumb down the length of Louis’ cock. The pressure is barely even enough to feel. Louis still has to grit his teeth against it, mouth dropping open helplessly as he gasps for enough air to fill his lungs. He puts his arm over his eyes, trying to cool down his hot face a little.

“I want to come,” Louis says. Harry just laughs, deep and happy, and sucks Louis’ cock back into his mouth, still not taking it in any further than the first two inches.

Tears build up behind Louis’ closed eyes. His breathing had gone ragged and uneven. There’s an ache in his side from it, only a little distracting. Nowhere near the amount he’d need it to be to be able to concentrate on anything other than this. Anything other than the wet slide of Harry’s tongue against his cock, moving slow and thoughtfully. The air is thick and muggy, and he’s so hot, so hot. His shirt feels like it’s drenched in sweat, sticking to him so tightly he can barely move, and he wants to come.

“Please,” Louis murmurs. His voice has gone thin and raspy. He figures it must be what Harry is waiting for, for him to beg. “Please fuck me.”

Harry pulls off just long enough to respond, “Not yet.” His voice is shot, hoarse, and the sound of it only makes Louis want to come that much more. Harry mouths at the head of his cock, and it’s all Louis can do to try to keep his breathing even. There’s a part of him that wants to watch, see the way Harry’s tongue slides over his skin, if his mouth has gone red. He’ll come for sure if he does that, though, so he curls his toes against the sheets helplessly, arching up into the pleasure. It shouldn’t feel so good when it’s this teasing, when all Harry is barely doing much more than licking at him.

He only makes it another few minutes before he can’t take it anymore. Breathes out, “If you keep doing that I’m gonna come on your face.”

It’s quiet enough that Louis barely hears it. For a second, he thinks Harry hasn’t, too focused on sliding his wet mouth down Louis’ cock again. Then all that heat, all that pressure, is gone, completely gone.

“In what world do you think I’d be opposed to that?” Harry asks. His voice is the deepest Louis has ever heard it. Louis lifts his arm just enough that he can see Harry propping himself up on an elbow, fingers of his free hand trailing softly across Louis’ hip.

Louis’ shirt is damp with sweat, sticking to the small of his back as he squirms underneath Harry’s hands. Neither of them are even naked yet, and suddenly that seems like the most unfair thing about all of this. He hasn’t even seen Harry’s cock yet, not properly. Not the way he wants to.

“You haven’t even gotten me fully naked yet,” Louis says. “Don’t you even want it?”

It turns out to be the thing that actually goads Harry into moving. He gets back up onto his knees, leaning over Louis, and takes his hand to guide it down into his pants, curling his fingers around his cock. “Does it feel like I don’t want it?”

It feels like it’s all Harry wants. His cock is just as hard as it was before in Louis’ grip, gone wet at the tip. Louis strokes him, staring up into Harry’s face, trying to make his own communicate his very urgent need to get fucked. Doesn’t know what else to do to convince Harry to hurry up.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Harry says, bending his head down to kiss Louis some more, mouths moving together slow and lazy.

“Please,” Louis says, twisting his head away enough to gasp out the word. “Please, I want you to fuck me.”

There’s not a lot of room to work with in Harry’s briefs. Louis makes it work, jerking Harry off slow and tight, giving him an idea of what he could have right at this very minute if he hurried up for once in his life.

“You just want to come,” Harry murmurs into his neck, dragging his teeth down towards Louis’ collarbone. “You can come whenever you want, baby. I promise I’m still going to fuck you.”

Louis doesn’t have enough wits about him enough to explain exactly how much that isn’t going to work for him. He tightens his grip on Harry’s cock, stroking him a little faster, and curls the fingers of his other hand around the back of Harry’s neck. In the end, all he can manage is, “Wanna come on your cock.”

“Mm,” Harry murmurs back, hips knocking forward as Louis grips him even tighter, trying to convince him. “You’re gonna do that. All fucked out and pliant, so good for me, so pretty.”

“Now,” Louis insists. It comes out a lot less firm than he means it to. He can barely concentrate with Harry on top of him like this, big and immovable, the weight of his cock in Louis’ hand distracting. “Don’t you wanna give me what I want?”

For a second, it seems like he’s going to give in. Louis’ insides feel like a tangled mess, too many feelings to sort through, but his belly jerks from the way Harry is looking at him, hunger deep in his eyes. 

“Baby,” Harry says slow, syllables dragging. He wraps his fingers around Louis’ wrist and pulls his hand out of his pants, forcing him to relinquish his grip on his cock. “Is that what you think is going on here? That you can just blink those pretty eyes up at me, beg a little, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do?”

Louis sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down on it so the noise that wants to escape his throat doesn’t have room. He shakes his head, trying to curl his fingers around Harry’s. “No, I – ”

“You’re trying to rush me,” Harry interrupts. “Because you’re bratty and impatient and somehow you never remember that I always give you what you need, not what you want.”

Louis’ fingers go slack. He stares up at Harry unblinking, heart pounding in his throat, blood thrumming through the rest of him.

“Because you’re the type of boy who never feels like a spanking is a punishment,” Harry continues, pulling Louis’ arm up over his head and pressing it down against the mattress, tangling their fingers together. “Do you think that your sore arse is going to make me go easier on you?”

“No,” Louis says. He can’t help the impulse he has to try to pull his hand out of Harry’s grip, just to see if Harry will let go.

He doesn’t. Keeps Louis’ hand pinned down against the bed despite Louis trying to pull away. 

“No,” Harry repeats. “You wanna know why?”

Clearly, he’s waiting for a response. Louis’ nod is short and jerky. He feels small and helpless, unable to move aside from the occasional wiggle, and if it wasn’t Harry he probably wouldn’t be so into it.

“Because you’re mine,” Harry tells him, “and I know what you need. Do you trust me on that?”

Of course Louis trusts him. There’s no one else in the entire world he trusts like Harry. “No,” he says, full of petulance. “You don’t know anything.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “You sure about that?” he asks and lets go of Louis’ wrist, pushing himself up onto his knees. At this angle, he’s towering over Louis, big and broad. It’s the light, must be, because his shoulders don’t normally look that big. Louis would know if they did.

Louis almost goes to touch himself. He pulls his hand away at the last second, laying his palm flat against the bed, pressing it down so it indents the mattress. “You’re full of yourself.”

To his credit, Harry doesn’t go for the obvious joke. He flops down onto his back beside Louis, shoving his pants down his thighs until he can kick them off, and then he starts stroking himself, big fingers circling his cock and pulling himself slow and steady. Louis can’t help the way he turns onto his side, curling up against Harry, laying his head on Harry’s shoulder so he can watch. His mouth goes wet again, staring at the smooth slide of Harry’s hand on his cock.

“Don’t,” Louis whispers, rubbing his face against Harry’s shoulder, trying to make himself stop watching. He can’t quite manage it, looking through his eyelashes, at Harry’s hand, his cock. His fingers look naked without all of his rings, and something about it sends a throb of heat through Louis’ belly, sharp and sudden.

“Don’t what?” Harry asks. His voice is surprisingly even for someone who’s touching themselves like this.

Louis wonders what Harry would do if he helped him. Just slid his hand down there and touched his cock, helped him get himself off. So he does. Harry makes a noise low in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t do anything else.

“Don’t what?” Harry repeats. There’s a strain to his voice now, for the first time, that sounds like he’s very affected. Louis tries to circle his cock but can’t quite manage with Harry’s hand in the way. “Don’t what, baby.”

It’s not a question anymore. It’s a demand that needs to be answered, and Louis isn’t capable of not answering it. “Please,” he says, still nothing more than a whisper. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I know,” Harry says. “What else.”

“’m sorry,” Louis says. Harry didn’t stop him from touching him, so Louis lets go of his cock and slides into his lap instead, nestling his arse right up against Harry’s cock. “Don’t want you to waste it jerking off when you could put it in me instead.”

Harry yanks him down with a hand against the back of Louis’ neck. The way he kisses him is full of teeth, biting and vicious, and Louis isn’t even sure it’s intentional. All he can do is open up for it, let Harry kiss him, consume him until he can barely breathe again, until all the space in his lungs is filled with need.

“I’m gonna eat you out,” Harry murmurs into the sliver of space between their mouths when he breaks the kiss. It’s pretty clear he’s not asking for permission.

The flush of heat that zings its way up Louis’ spine is so sharp he shivers from it, digging his nails into Harry’s shoulders. He’s still sitting in Harry’s lap, still the one with more leverage, and he’s never felt less in control in his life. He can’t stop himself from reaching down again to try to get a hold of Harry’s cock, following a blind, irrational impulse.

“I – ” Louis says, floundering a little as Harry grabs his hand before he can put it anywhere, gripping it tight, preventing him from moving it.

“You showered after your set,” Harry says. He sits up, still holding Louis’ hand trapped in his, his other sliding down the length of Louis’ back until it’s ghosting over the crease of his arse. “Bet you fingered yourself a little in there, couldn’t stop yourself from it. Did you make yourself come?”

“You’re making all kinds of assumptions about my character,” Louis manages, breathless. He can feel how pink his face is.

“Am I?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow. His hand slides lower, two fingers slipping between Louis’ cheeks until they can rub over his hole, dry and gentle. He doesn’t wait for Louis to come up with an answer before continuing, “Still feel a little open to me. Like I could get a finger into you without having to work for it.”

Louis did finger himself. But only because he knew what Harry would want. Not because he was already so desperate for it he needed to take the edge off a little. And even if that was the case, which it’s not, it’s not like he got himself off like that. No matter how tempting it was.

“Feels like you’re calling me a bit of a slut,” Louis says. If it wasn’t for the lingering ache in his arse from Harry’s hand, his last orgasm would feel a lot longer ago than it was. As it is, he’s already desperate to come again, to get Harry inside of him, filling him up.

“No,” Harry says. He rubs at Louis’ hole a little harder, a little more meaningfully. Louis can’t help the way he pushes down against Harry’s fingers, dry and not even caring if it meant he’d get something inside of him. “Just sayin’ you’re clean and I’ve spent a lot of time daydreaming about eating you out.”

Louis has, too. Sometimes he gets distracted by the shape of Harry’s mouth when he chews gum. Still. He has priorities, here. “Want your cock.”

Harry raises a mild eyebrow at him. “Didn’t we just have a conversation about how I give you what you need?”

He’s lucky Louis is in love with him. He doesn’t have the patience to put up with this from anyone else. “Want to come on your cock,” he clarifies, and rocks his arse against said cock. It has the added benefit of pressing Harry’s fingers harder between his cheeks, and Louis has to suck in a lungful of air to keep going.

“Oh, you’re gonna come,” Harry says. He stops waiting for Louis to help and just flips him over himself, hands strong and sure underneath Louis’ thighs. Louis inhales sharply, getting a face full of pillow for his trouble, and tries to kick backwards and hit Harry in the leg or something. He misses, gets nothing but air.

He doesn’t realize that Harry’s gone quiet until he squirms his way into a comfortable position, knee pulled up a little, hand under his chest.

He also doesn’t realize exactly how exposed all of his squirming has left him until he recognizes the cool air hitting his warm back. His warm, bared back, because his shirt has slid up almost all the way to his armpits. Now he’s really almost naked, almost all of him on display. The thought makes him flush even deeper than before, tucking his face into the sheets so Harry won’t see it.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry says eventually, his voice quiet. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

His hand comes down to drag its way slowly up the length of Louis’ thigh, towards the curve of his arse. Louis breathes in deeply, clutching the sheet between two fingers as he tries to keep his reaction to a minimum. It’s just a simple touch. He’s been touched this way countless times before, by a lot of different people. It shouldn’t feel like this, like he’s about to go out of his mind from it when he’s already come once tonight.

Although Harry _has_ been touching him for a long time now. Maybe it isn’t so surprising after all.

“If you don’t do something soon I’m going to leave you for someone else,” Louis threatens. It would probably be much more menacing if he was facing Harry, but then the redness on his cheeks would also be much more apparent.

Harry bites the swell of his arse. Louis jumps, stomach clenching at the brief flare of pain. “No you’re not,” Harry says. He squeezes both of Louis’ arsecheeks, one in each hand. “You’re stuck with me at this point, baby, sorry to say.”

He doesn’t sound very sorry. In fact, he doesn’t sound sorry at all. It’s insane how into it Louis is.

“I am,” Louis insists. He can feel the way Harry’s looking at him, drinking in Louis’ nearly naked body. It’s a heavy, heated gaze. “What’s the point of even being with you if you’re not going to dick me down the way you’ve been promising to?”

Harry sighs, squeezing his handfuls of arse a little harder. “You’re the most impatient person I know, did you know that?” he asks conversationally. Louis is going to respond, he really is, except Harry always chooses his moments wisely, and he chooses that exact one to lean down and lick a long, slow stripe in between Louis’ arsecheeks, ghosting over his hole.

All of Louis’ words die directly in his throat. He gasps against the sheets, fingers curling into his palms. Harry doesn’t give him any time to get used to it before his tongue is coming back again, harder this time. He doesn’t waste time being gentle about it, tongue moving sharp and sure. Licking at Louis all wet and messy, trying to coax his hole open.

It feels like Louis’ brain is melting slowly out of his ears, that’s how good it is. He’s aware of how much noise he’s making but he can’t stop himself, bring a hand up to his mouth so he can bite at his knuckles. There’s tears building behind his closed eyelids, sheets rucked up underneath him, and he can’t help trying to arch up into it, only to get pinned back down by Harry’s hands.

“Every part of you is so gorgeous,” Harry says, rubbing the pad of his thumb against Louis’ wet hole, threatening to slip in. Louis shivers, hips squirming. “Wanna come inside you, get you all wet and messy.”

Louis doesn’t have a chance to regain his breath before Harry goes back to licking at him, tongue getting deeper this time. He’s going to come if Harry keeps doing this. He’s kind of surprised that he hasn’t come already.

“Please,” he rasps, turning his face to the side. All of his nerve endings are on fire, alight with arousal. “Want you to come in me.”

“Yeah, baby,” Harry says, tonguing at Louis’ hole again. It’s not an answer, and Louis needs – he _needs_ Harry to fuck him.

“Harry,” he says. The word sticks in his throat, thick like honey. His knees don’t support him when he tries to push himself up, thighs trembling as Harry presses his tongue back inside him, cock hard between his belly and the bed. “’m gonna come.”

It feels like he’s stuck on repeat, can’t figure out the words he needs to say. It’s the same thing he said a few minutes ago, but it must be the catch in his voice that gets Harry’s attention, gets him squeezing Louis’ thigh before pushing himself up so he can line them up, chest warm against Louis’ back. He’s not resting all of his weight down, but it’s enough that Louis can really feel him, how solid he is, reassuring. 

Harry mouths at the side of his neck before he says anything, idle and gentle, fingers wrapped around one of Louis’ wrists again, “Wanna come for me, baby?” 

Immediately, Louis says, “Yes.” Harry’s hips sink down a little harder, cock sliding between Louis’ cheeks, and he nearly comes just from that, his own hips jerking at the feeling. Has to grit his teeth against it, a full body throb running through him.

“You can,” Harry says, murmuring the words against Louis’ ear like they’re permission, tongue wet and hot against his lobe. “Come on my tongue, show me how it’s gonna feel when you come on my cock, squeezing down around me like you can’t wait for my come in you.”

Louis’ cock weeps, a fresh wave of pre-come seeping into the sheets. He can hear himself making noises that he can’t stop, fingers scrabbling for traction, for something to hold onto. Whimpers Harry’s name again, trying to roll his hips up, drag Harry’s cock between his cheeks. Convince him that Louis deserves to be fucked.

“Can you do that for me, baby? Come for me one more time before I put it in you? Wanna be good for me, yeah?”

The only thing Louis can do is nod into the pillow, helpless. His fingers shake as he tries to shove the pillow out of the way, fold his arms under his head. Harry helps him, keeping a big hand warm in the center of Louis’ back as he does. As overwhelmingly turned on as Louis feels, the touch helps ground him, pull him back down to the bed so he doesn’t go floating off somewhere.

“Yeah,” Harry continues. “You can, baby. So good for me, wanna keep you like this forever.”

He’s still talking as he squeezes the back of Louis’ neck once, then goes back down. Interrupts himself to put his mouth to the swell of Louis’ arse above his thigh, liberal with his teeth. Louis’ cock drips, slow and steady. Murmurs _please_ into the gap between his arms and the mattress, not even sure what he’s asking for anymore. There’s a haze settling into his bones, hot and pleasant, and more than anything he trusts Harry to take care of him.

Harry’s got one hand framing Louis’ arsecheek, carefully avoiding the spots that are still hot and sore, holding him open. He slides the other between Louis’ belly and the mattress, curling his fingers around Louis’ cock. The way he goes back to licking at Louis’ hole is easy and familiar, tongue sliding sweet and hot against him, into him. He’s not even jerking Louis off, not really, big fingers holding his cock as Louis works his hips down into the pressure as much as he can. It’s more than enough to make him come, slicking up Harry’s hand, cock jerking feebly through it. 

“There you go, sweetheart,” Harry murmurs, working Louis through it. Something in the core of Louis’ chest settles at the sound of his voice. “Never going to get used to how good you sound when you come.”

Louis’ head is fuzzy, thoughts swimming sluggishly through his brain. Slowly, he flexes his fingers, trying to see if they still work. Harry’s still murmuring praise as he climbs up from his position, fits himself back up against Louis’ back. His cock is hard against Louis’ arse, and Louis wants to take care of that, he does, but he can barely manage to twitch his fingers against the pillow.

There’s movement at the side of the bed, Harry’s arm jostling against Louis’ side a little. It takes Louis a minute to even register it, gaze fixed on the tattoos lining Harry’s skin. There’s a light sheen of sweat covering them, a sign that he’s been the one doing all the work so far.

“I love you,” Louis says. Dragging his arm down so he can fumble his hand around to touch Harry’s is hard, but he manages it.

Harry pulls a bottle of lube out from where he must have stashed it between the mattress and the box spring. He doesn’t sound distracted at all as he responds, “I love you too.”

They’re words they’ve said a lot over the last few days. They still warm the center of Louis’ chest, almost unbearably so.

“You’ve been everything I wanted since I was still young and stupid, and I’m so happy that I have you for real now,” Harry says. There’s a snick as he pops the lube open with his thumb, pouring some out and warming on his fingers. “Also, I’m gonna finger you for a while now, okay?”

He rubs his wet fingers at Louis’ hole but doesn’t push them in, waiting for an answer. Louis nods slowly, doesn’t even have to think about it. “Please.”

It doesn’t matter that he’s just come, that he’s still sensitive from it. That all of his nerve endings are still on fire from it. He still wants it.

“Orgasms make you so polite,” Harry says into his ear, their bodies pressed together so tight there’s no space for air. “That kinda turns me on, baby.”

Of course it does. He’s so fucking weird. Louis’ head is still not screwed back on properly, but he manages, “Thank you for making me come. Want your cock now, please.”

Harry’s laugh is a low, breathless thing against Louis’ jaw. He kisses him despite the awkward angle, and Louis is so busy trying to kiss back that he’s not paying enough attention to know where Harry’s fingers are until one is pressing up against his rim. Louis’ tongue goes slack, letting Harry kiss him as his finger slides into him, sinking in all the way easily.

It doesn’t hurt. Louis gasps into Harry’s mouth anyway, digging his nails into the sheets, catching on a loose thread. He’s already wet and open from Harry’s tongue, enough that all it feels like is having a need fulfilled. He makes a noise into Harry’s mouth as Harry moves it, curling a little. His cock didn’t go all the way soft after his last orgasm, already all the way back to half-hard just from a single finger.

Harry sinks a second finger inside before Louis is fully adjusted to the first one, curling them together, searching for Louis’ prostate. It only takes him a second before he finds it, rubbing both fingers at it mercilessly.

“Fuck,” Louis says. The pressure is so much, sending sharp spikes of pleasure up his spine. Harry’s fingers are big, inescapable, and he’s using them in a way that’s anything but lazy. “H, I – ”

“Yeah, baby?” Harry asks, nudging at Louis’ hip with his other hand, the touch gentle, comforting. “Y’alright?”

Louis opens his eyes fully. He doesn’t know how he’d be able to concentrate if he was on his back, watching Harry watch him. That’s no doubt what Harry is doing, aside from the obvious. He’d probably come again before he was ready for it, and that would hurt too much, even for him. “S’good,” he tells Harry. “Feels good.”

The glint of metal sitting on the nightstand catches his eye. He reaches out, fingers trembling, trying to get them to co-operate long enough to close around one. Harry doesn’t stop fingering him, distracting, even though he must be able to see what Louis is trying to do, and before he knows it Louis is being kissed again, firm and deep.

The kiss is even more distracting than the fingering, somehow. Louis gets lost in it, hand going lax against the table. His neck hurts a little from the angle, and like he can sense it, Harry moves up a bit, kissing Louis deeper, wetter.

“Here, baby,” Harry says, breaking the kiss. He’s holding a ring in his left hand, doesn’t waste any time sliding it onto Louis’ ring finger, even though it’s too big and Louis has to curl his fingers into his palm to keep it from sliding off.

It’s the _H_ one. Of all the ones sitting on the table right now, that’s the one Harry picked to put on Louis’ finger.

Louis is fully hard again. He doesn’t think it’s because of the ring, but. Well. It might be. Or it’s the two fingers Harry still has buried in his arse, stroking idly against his prostate every so often.

“This doesn’t mean we’re married, you know,” he manages, gaze caught on the ring, big and bulky and screaming that he’s Harry’s.

“No,” Harry agrees easily, and slides a third finger into him. While Louis is still reeling from the stretch of it, he continues, “You’re a fucking _spectacle_ , baby, of course our wedding isn’t going to some low-key affair that the entire world doesn’t know about.”

Coming from anyone other than Harry, it could sound like an insult. The way Harry says it is just a little short of worshipping.

Louis flushes, squirming back on Harry’s fingers. “Could be our wedding night, though,” he says, squeezing his fingers against the ring. “You know I’m gonna want it like this all the time.”

Overwhelming and crazy good. He’s pretty sure Harry can make that happen.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Cause you’re needy and amazing and _mine_.”

He pulls his fingers out, leaving Louis wet and open and desperate for it. There’s the obvious sound of him slicking himself up, the deep, ragged inhale he takes as he spreads lube over his cock. Louis wants it, wants _him_ , more than anything right now, and he doesn’t have it in him to put up even a token disagreement. All of his effort goes into turning himself over, trying to get onto his back before Harry can put it in. It takes more energy than he’d like to admit, thighs still trembling from the exertion of his last orgasm.

“God,” Louis sighs. He has to grip at his own cock at the sight of it, the wet sheen of Harry’s cock from the lube, thick and hard. Bare. It feels like he’s been waiting forever for this. “Want it so bad.”

“Mm,” Harry says back, shuffling up closer before he gives up on that and just pulls Louis down the rest of the way into his lap, “Well, you’re gonna have to shut your pretty little mouth about it for a minute or you’re going to make me come before you get it.”

Chances are, he’s not serious about that. Not when he’s held off this long, given Louis two bone-shaking orgasms without needing anything in return. Still, Louis isn’t going to take that chance, so he shuts his mouth, blinking up at Harry slowly. Harry huffs out a laugh, and one of them moves to make their mouths meet again, and then Harry’s lining himself up and pushing in.

The kiss goes from real to them just breathing against each other’s mouths. Louis’ eyes slip closed, gripping at Harry’s shoulders to keep himself steady. His breath catches after the first inch or so, and he has to hold it while Harry keeps going, knees pressed tight against Harry’s hips, urging him in.

“You’re so quiet,” Harry murmurs. He doesn’t stop pushing in, forcing Louis’ body to make room for him, and Louis is so hard he might come before Harry even makes it all the way in. “Think – _fuck_ – think this is the quietest you’ve ever been in your whole life.”

He sounds like he can barely string together the sentence, so affected by the tight clutch of Louis’ hole around him. Louis opens his eyes, blinking through a salty mixture of sweat and tears, and touches Harry’s face, the curve of his jaw, the sweep of his cheek. His dimples are still out, less deep now as he exerts himself, but enough that Louis can dip his thumb into one lightly.

Then, because Harry’s good to him and he takes everything Louis dishes out and barely complains about it, Louis whispers, “Your cock is very big.”

Under his thumb, Harry’s dimple deepens. “Yeah?” He pushes in a little more, almost all the way inside now, and Louis is already split wide open from how good it feels. He can’t really feel the difference without a condom, but the look on Harry’s face says he can, and that makes Louis’ cock drip.

“Don’t make me regret complimenting you,” Louis warns. Even to his own ears, he sounds breathless and way too fond.

Instead of answering, Harry kisses him again, tongue moving slick and easy as he finishes filling Louis up. He doesn’t wait for Louis to get used to the stretch of it, starts thrusting right away. Not deep, just short little swivels of his hips. Louis is making noise into Harry’s mouth, unable to stop himself, helpless little whimpers knocked out of the back of his throat every time Harry fucks back in. Louis is wet and open for it, cock drooling against his own belly as he gets fucked, held in place for it by Harry’s big, warm hands.

“You feel so good,” Harry whispers into Louis’ mouth. He hauls him up a little higher, the muscles in his arms flexing, and then he really starts to go for it, thrusting deep and fast, hitting Louis’ prostate almost every time.

Louis’ head tips back against the pillow. All of his muscles feel like they’ve turned to jelly, useless and weak. His hand is still pressed against Harry’s face, fingertips trembling against Harry’s skin as his orgasm builds in the base of his spine. He can feel the way Harry’s watching him, bent nearly in half. He’s still wearing Harry’s dumb shirt, the fabric of it sticking to him in a way that will probably be uncomfortable when he can concentrate on anything other than the deep drag of Harry’s cock in his arse and the desperate need coursing throughout the rest of his body.

“Harry,” he says, raspy and thin. His hand slides down Harry’s neck to rest on his shoulder, holding on. Harry’s ring weighs heavily on his left hand, reminding him exactly how much he belongs here, in this exact position.

“Yeah, baby,” Harry murmurs back. Sweat is beading at his hairline, drops sliding down his temples, making a few strands of his hair stick to his face. There’s a set to his jaw that reminds Louis, suddenly, that Harry hasn’t come at all yet. He must want it so bad.

Louis can barely think straight. Harry’s cock is rolling against his prostate now, slow and smooth, and the pressure is good Louis might be crying. He can’t tell, big happy place in his chest taking too much of his attention.

“Make me come,” Louis says. Blinks away the wetness trapped in his eyelashes, trying to clench down around Harry’s cock. Has the presence of mind to tack on, “Please.” Nothing gets to Harry the way good manners do.

“You wanna come, baby?” Harry asks. He bites at the corner of Louis’ jaw until Louis’ head tilts for him, exposing his neck, the spot Harry keeps pressing his thumb against lately. There’s already a bruise there, high and obvious. Harry keeps making it worse every time he sucks at it.

“Please,” Louis gasps out. There’s nothing intentional about it this time. It just sort of slips out. His throat clicks at he tries to swallow, digging his nails into Harry’s back as Harry’s tongue slides over that spot, misleadingly gentle.

His vision goes white hot and hazy when Harry sucks at it, teeth sharp and a little painful. His cock throbs angrily, demandingly. It’s almost enough to make him come, pleasure overwhelming.

“You’re so amazing,” Harry says. His voice is still quiet, face pressed close to Louis’. He doesn’t slow down his thrusts, hips working smoothly. “I would have waited the rest of my life for you.”

He puts his hand on Louis’ cock, barely even touching him before Louis is coming, squeezing his eyes closed. Harry fucks him through it. It feels like his cock is getting even bigger, somehow, and all of it is so good Louis feels like he’s been stripped all the way down to his soul.

He floats on a wave of endorphins for a few minutes, conscious of the fact that Harry’s still going but not really registering it. By the time he’s able to open his eyes, he can’t feel his toes, hidden behind Harry’s back. He’s thinks they’re still there, though.

“I love you,” Louis says. His fingers are still trembling as he reaches up to brush Harry’s hair out of his face, lingering against his jawline. “So much.”

Harry’s going to come regardless of whether Louis helps him along or not, Louis knows. There’s really no need for Louis to help him along. He’s already got his cock shoved deep in Louis’ arse, splitting him open, fucking him sore. Louis won’t be able to walk properly in the morning.

“I love you too,” Harry whispers back, even though he must be desperate to come by now. “Probably even more.”

Now is not the time to debate that. Louis licks at his bottom lip, trying to move his hips and meet Harry’s thrusts. “Are you going to come? Get me all wet and messy, use me up? Already fucked me so good, just have to come in me now, mark me up like that.”

“That what you want?” Harry manages, voice gone tight. He rearranges Louis’ legs, presses them against his hips. His thrusts have gone a little erratic, wild, so close to coming Louis can practically feel it himself. “Want me to make you dirty even though you’re all sweet and tired? Wanna feel me dripping out of you afterwards, remind you that I’m the only person you’ve ever let in you like this?”

Louis’ cock twitches feebly, trying in vain to go for a fourth round. If Harry keeps talking he might be able to get there, the sound of his voice washing over Louis’ body, into him.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Want you to come, Harry, please. Want to feel you inside me when I fall asleep.”

“Fuck,” Harry says on an exhale. He dips his head back down to kiss at Louis’ mouth again, hips moving harder, faster, shoving Louis full of his cock so deep it hurts a little, and then he’s coming in hot waves, making Louis just as messy on the inside as he feels on the outside.

Louis feels like he’s the one who’s just come. A flush of satisfaction runs through him. His toes curl against Harry’s back, letting Harry kiss him as rough as he needs to as he comes down from it. Slowly, the kiss turns gentle, tender, both of them gripping at each other tight. The way Harry pulls out is languid, barely breaking the kiss as he lowers Louis’ legs back down to the mattress. He lies down, drawing the sheet up to their shoulders, making sure Louis’ back is covered as Louis turns in to him, rolling onto his side.

Harry watches him, thumb ghosting over Louis’ kiss-swollen mouth, his other hand drifting across Louis’ body like he’s checking that every part of him is okay. Louis feels a little empty without Harry’s cock filling him up.

“You’re not tired?” Louis murmurs, reaching out so he can lay his hand against Harry’s cheek. “You did all the work.”

Everything feels slow and sweet, pleasantly hazy. He’s not sure whether his fingertips are tingling or whether he can’t feel them at all.

Harry’s hand comes up to cover Louis’, like a heavy weight anchoring him to the bed. “I’m happy,” he whispers back. He looks younger than normal, hair messed up, necklaces tangled against his shoulder, cheeks still a little flushed. 

The words light up in Louis’ chest, deep and warm. “Me too,” he says, trying to shuffle just a little bit closer. Harry smiles, turns his head just enough that he can kiss the inside of Louis’ wrist.

“Do you need anything? Want me to get a flannel, wipe you down?”

Louis’ skin is probably going tacky with drying come. He can’t feel it, though. Can only feel the deeply pleasant ache of his arse, thoroughly used, and the tremble that’s still lingering in his belly. Part of him wants it again, wants Harry to fuck him until he falls asleep like that, still split open on Harry’s cock.

“Just need you,” he answers. 

No one should be allowed to have dimples that deep. They strike at a piece of Louis’ chest, underneath his skin.

“You have me,” Harry says, sliding his hand up a little higher and tangling their fingers together. The candles are still burning, and one of them is going to have to get up eventually to blow them out.

It’s not going to be Louis. He’s starting to be able to feel all of his various body parts again, but there’s no way he’s going to get up from this bed until he absolutely has to.

Exhaustion is starting to sink into his bones. It’s warm with the blankets pulled up to their shoulders, and with Harry right here with him it’s the perfect set-up for actually falling asleep.

“Did you write Sweet Creature about me?” Louis asks. His voice is hoarse, comes out softer than he was intending.

“I write most songs about you,” Harry says easily. He probably would have told Louis that if he asked back when Harry first let him listen to it. It’s why Louis didn’t ask then.

“Even Kiwi?”

Harry’s quiet for a minute. Louis waits, eyes threatening to slip closed. “Kind of,” Harry says eventually.

“Kind of how?” Louis presses. If he had more energy, he’d get into Harry’s lap, see if that would convince him to tell him the truth.

Harry’s shrug is anything but eloquent. “I was thinking about sex when I wrote it, and I usually think about sex in relation to you, so.”

“You were fantasizing about knocking me up,” Louis says with satisfaction. He knew it. 

It feels good to be vindicated.

“I was thinking about having you like this,” Harry corrects, hand drifting down Louis’ side to stroke across his arse, brief and pleasant before he slides two fingers in between Louis’ cheeks to press lightly against his hole. “Bare and defenseless, with nothing between us.”

With Harry’s fingers there, Louis is just starting to be able to feel the wet slide of come seeping out of him. He’s still sore and a little overwhelmed, but none of that convinces him to stop Harry from sliding those two fingers back inside of him, like he’s trying to push his come back in where it belongs.

“’m gonna write an entire album about you,” Louis says softly, squirming on Harry’s fingers, arse throbbing. “About the way you fuck.”

Harry laughs, curling his fingers a little. Louis is almost at the point of oversensitivity, knee hitched up on Harry’s thigh. “Baby,” he says slowly, seriously, “That’s one thing I can honestly say I’ve always taken as a given.”

Yeah, he was worth the wait. Louis is never going to let him go.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](https://crazyupsetter.tumblr.com). Thank you for reading!


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